


Silence the Lambs

by Damonfreak89



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bondage, Cannibalism, Consensual Kink, Dominance, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Murderers, On the Run, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Will Graham is a Cannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-06-07 05:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15212606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damonfreak89/pseuds/Damonfreak89
Summary: My take on Hannibal Season 4.After Hannibal and Will survive their fall from the cliff, the Murder Husbands are on the run from the FBI. Will must live with the decisions he has made, and his feelings towards Hannibal. But his loyalties are tested when Jack Crawford reaches out for help in catching another serial killer, the infamous ‘Buffalo Bill’.





	1. Limbo

**Author's Note:**

> Hey peeps! I'm so sorry the original posting of this went so squiffy! I had 4 posts of it up at one point, and then managed to delete them all by accident... Oopsie.
> 
> Anywho, it gave me a chance to tweak, so I'm happier with this first bit. It's not as long as I was going to make the chapters (think the whopping 20-25k wordcount per chapter in This Dark Heart and Reckoning) but I really wanted to get it up and see what y'all made of it! I'm impatient and impulsive that way. Hehe.
> 
> So, yeah. I hope you enjoy!

It isn’t the pain of the blade entering his face that surprises Will. Isn’t the crunch of cartilage and _teeth_ leaving gums that makes his stomach twist. It’s Dolarhyde’s _strength_. It’s the fact that he lifts him from his feet, dangling him like a hooked fish, before tossing him through the shattered window, as casually as one might toss a piece of garbage from the window of a moving car.

Instinct and training makes him roll as he lands, and the surge of adrenaline blocks the feeling of his elbow cracking on the paving. Will lies on his back, gasping for breath that bubbles through the blood coating his mouth. When his tongue moves, it slices open on the tip of the blade protruding from beneath his right eye socket and he feels dizzy.

Left behind in the house, slumped at the foot of his piano and fighting down the cold pain of his gunshot wound, Hannibal can _feel_ his lips curling back from his teeth in a snarl. Will had been reaching for his gun – as cold and uncaring as he had appeared at the Dragon’s first attack, staring down with the terrifying impassivity of God, he _had_ been about to shoot Francis. To stop him. But Francis had been too fast, and had anticipated his deceit.

Now, Hannibal watches as the Great Red Dragon advances on Will, dragging him up to his knees. Francis doesn’t notice when Will wrenches the knife free, but Hannibal can imagine the sucking, grating feeling as muscle and skin cling to the blade, spilling a jet of blood from his face before Will swings his arm back with a desperate ferocity, burying the weapon into the side of Dolarhyde’s knee. The Dragon screams, and staggers enough that Will thinks he can get free, but then the other man wraps his hand around the handle and tugs it out. He grabs for Will, sinking the little blade deep into the muscle of Will’s right shoulder, trying to sever the tendons or puncture a lung.

Will gasps, coughing on blood. His vision shakes, and pain threatens to overwhelm him. He sags, allowing Dolarhyde to wrench him up onto his knees to break his neck. Grey spots swarm, clouding the edges of his sight with darkness. But something changes; Dolarhyde hesitates, staggers…

Hannibal is there. Hannibal, _shot_ , wraps himself around Francis’s back, strong arms gripping him in a headlock, an arm across his trachea to crush the windpipe. But Francis has not been badly wounded; he gets an arm up and twists, sending Hannibal sprawling. Hannibal rolls, over and over, until he smacks into a rock near the edge of the cliff, knocking the breath from him.

Will falls onto his front, trying to stagger away as Dolarhyde abandons him for his true prey. The Dragon stalks after Hannibal, and, as Will gets his arms under him to push himself to his feet, he’s certain his wavering vision shows great leathery bat wings unfurl from Dolarhyde’s shoulders. The sight of them freezes his bones and stills his heart, but Will doesn’t pause for long. Bracing himself, he tugs the knife from his shoulder, keening at the pain and spilling more blood down his shirt.

Hannibal is up on his feet now, but only because Francis has wrapped both hands tight around his throat to choke the life from him. He stares into the twitching, distorted face, at the sweaty brow and bared teeth, and he smiles as best he can. Smiles because, behind him, Will is pushing himself to his feet, the knife in his hand, and he is _glorious_. Red-streaked and wild, his eyes gleam with a feral lust, searing Hannibal’s soul. Will moves with precision and speed, stabbing the knife straight into the Dragon’s right kidney.

_That’s it, Will. Kill him._

Francis drops Hannibal with a strangled howl. He spins, backhanding Will across the face and sending him skidding onto his back, before kicking Hannibal square in the ribs and knocking him into a pile of chopped wood. Hannibal lands hard, gasping for air as a rib cracks, but his hand lands on the polished handle of the axe, and elation sends a warm thrill through him, soothing the pain. He reaches for it, the movement distracting Francis from advancing on Will, but the Dragon is too late.

_You’re mine, Francis._

Hannibal swings, slicing the tendon in Francis’s leg with deadly precision. Blood flows, but that is not its purpose. Francis stumbles, his leg buckling, allowing Will to strike with beautiful grace. Another stab to the kidneys, and, as Francis arches in agony, Hannibal swings again. This is their dance, and their synchronicity is breathtaking. The axe nicks the next tendon, and the Dragon staggers. How he manages to stand is a feat of pure animal fury, and Hannibal’s chest swells with pride to be the one to take down such an opponent.

Francis drags himself a safe distance from the two circling men. His face registers the fear, the realization, that he is no longer the predator, but _their_ prey. That _they_ are going to kill him. And Hannibal, panting blood and filled with fire, cannot help but stare as Will rises, magnificent, to lock eyes with him.

 _Together_.

They strike as one. Hannibal leaps onto Francis’s back, wrapping arms and legs tight around him. Francis rears, trying to buck him off, and Hannibal sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of his throat. And Will, his dark, powerful Will, after all these years of repressing his true nature, makes his choice.

Will drives his knife deep into the Dragon’s belly, the same way Hannibal gutted him. Wrenches, carving Dolarhyde open and spilling steaming entrails out into the cool night.

Hannibal tears a chunk of flesh from the front of Francis’s throat, swallowing his prize, and allows the dying man to fall.

It’s over.

Francis crashes to his knees, his mouth open wide in a silent scream of fury. Dragging himself away on one of the benches near the fire pit, Will sees the wings falter. Sees them droop. And then, as the light fades from Dolarhyde’s eyes, they disappear, because Francis is just a man. Not even that anymore; nothing but a body as he tumbles to the ground, his arms wide in supplication and blood spreading like ink across the flagstones.

The Great Red Dragon is dead. He’s dead, and they are alive… They are so very, very _alive_.

Will’s mind can’t process it. He feels… Light. Drunk with power and boundless potential. But also calm. Peaceful. As though the broken pieces of himself have finally, _finally_ come together and he can be whole.

He can be _himself_.

Pain brushes the edges of his consciousness. He doesn’t care. Every sense is heightened, and pain is nothing but sensation, firing in his brain. He knows Hannibal thinks of it that way, too. Are they his thoughts, or Hannibal’s? Have their minds already begun to bleed back into one another?

 _Conjoined_.

The air parts for him as he lifts his hand. Will stares at the blood coating his skin, staining his pores and settling in the creases between his fingers. He can hear his heart; a steady, defiant thud in his chest. He can hear every rasp of breath, feel the whistle as it flows through the flap of his torn cheek. All he can taste is copper. All he smells is metal and salt and sweat… But he doesn’t feel sick.

He feels _hungry_ …

‘It really does look black in the moonlight,’ he says, dropping his head to stutter out a gasping laugh. The movement tugs on his cut, and the smile quickly fades to a grimace. As light as he feels, he’s also _exhausted_. Now that the fight is over, he can feel every aching muscle, leaving him trembling. His legs are like lead, and black seeps into the edge of his vision. Not long before he passes out…

Will holds his hand out, asking for help. Hannibal’s breath catches, and his heart skips a beat. The smaller man looks ready to collapse, if not from the physical fight then from the weight of the truth; of the _acceptance_. Hannibal reaches for him and holds him tight, pulling him up into an embrace. He ignores the screams of his own abdomen, bracing with his back to support the other man’s weight as they both fight to keep their feet.

God… To feel Will in his arms again, after so many years apart… After such starvation… Hannibal’s throat is tight, and his eyes are wet with unshed tears.

They are both breathing hard. Juddering in the aftermath. Will feels tears prick his own eyes, threatening to spill, and he winds a hand in the soft cashmere of Hannibal’s grey jumper.

‘See?’ Hannibal’s voice is hoarse, and slurred from pain, but his words slide down Will’s spine like molten fire, spreading out through his belly until every _inch_ of him tingles. ‘This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.’

This close, Will can feel the heat radiating from the other man. He can feel Hannibal’s hard muscles and smell his rich, thick scent under the layers of blood. He turns his head, and they both stare down at the Dragon, at the ruin they have made together. But, like a moth to a flame, he is drawn back to Hannibal’s face, and he can’t help but stare. Beyond the sharp cheekbones and gleaming eyes, beyond the thin, cruel lips and sun-starved skin… He sees _Hannibal_. He sees _himself_ … He sees everything he’s ever wanted, and everything he’s ever felt.

Untamable. Unstoppable. _Devastating_.

‘It’s beautiful.’

It’s true, but it’s not what he means. It’s not enough. It’s not what he _feels_.

 _I love you_.

Hannibal jolts when he realizes Will’s truth. He _hears_ what the other man isn’t ready to say, and his heart swells, threatening to burst. He presses his cheek to the top of Will’s head as the other man hugs him close, and nuzzles Will’s blood-slick curls, drinking in the feel and smell of him. Shivers at the bruising hardness of Will’s erection against his thigh, just shy of his own, and winds his fist in Will’s stained shirt.

He is never letting him go.

Will snakes an arm up around Hannibal’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer. He can feel his hips aching to thrust forwards, to seek relief against Hannibal’s answering hardness, but his brain doesn’t even register shock or embarrassment. There’s no time. It has to be now. Now, before he loses the nerve.

 _Now_.

He pushes, one last, desperate attempt to save the world from them both, and they are falling. Tumbling into the roiling Atlantic.

The world tilts, and Hannibal’s stomach lurches. Panic flashes through him, freezing the blood in his veins, and he realizes, with sickening clarity, that they’re falling over the edge of the cliff. _They_ are falling because Will has pushed them to their deaths.

Will is trying to kill him. Again.

 _NO_.

Wind rips the breath from his lungs and his ears scream protest. Hannibal grabs Will closer, tucking the smaller man’s head to his chest, and braces himself for the impact. They are going to hit the cliff before the water. That’s good.

Bones shatter, and great swaths of skin tear away from shining muscle as they hit the jagged edge of the rockface. They tumble apart, skidding and rolling in an avalanche of limestone pebbles. Hannibal grapples for purchase, breaking his fingers in a futile attempt to slow the descent. He’s lost Will. He’s lost everything, and then he hits the water, and he’s sinking, dragged down by the current.

It’s _freezing_. Hannibal’s mind spins, struggling to recall his knowledge of ocean swimming, cliff-diving and the Atlantic Ocean from the halls of his memory palace. But it’s collapsing, the great stone cathedrals shaking apart at the seams. Statues tumble and the vast, stinking pits of his dungeons tear chasms in the frescoed floors of his rooms…

Hannibal breaks the surface of the water, sucking in a desperate lungful of air, choking as he fights to stay afloat.

‘Will! WILL!’

Another wave drags him under and he is thrown backwards against the rocks. Pain sears his back, ripping through the Verger brand on his back, and Hannibal opens his mouth to the ocean.

_Unconsciousness following submersion can occur within twenty to sixty seconds, though a person can survive drowning if they are rescued within three to four minutes…_

An old textbook, probably out of date now… Screaming fills his head. Fetid breath and rotting teeth, tar-stained fingers pinching at his arms, testing his fat… The well-lit displays of his memory palace darken, and the last thing Hannibal remembers is bloodied snow, milk teeth in a bowl and a scream, short and sharp, before the thud of an axe.

_Mischa…_

***

Eleven hours and forty-two minutes after Hannibal Lecter escaped from police custody, Jack Crawford stands in the sitting room of the hidden beach house, shards of glass sparkling amidst the drying remains of blood and wine. His brow is furrowed, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. With his hat pulled low, the FBI agents and officers checking the crime scene cannot see much of his face. What little they do see warns them to work quietly.

Outside, the body of Francis Dolarhyde, the once Great Red Dragon, lies cold and stiff on the bloodstained flagstones. His throat has been torn open, exposing his tongue and windpipe, and a vicious slice across his abdomen has allowed gulls and other seabirds to peck out his entrails. The hungry birds hover at the edges of the courtyard now, held at bay by the forensic examiners, their beaks stained pink.

‘Hey, Jack; we’ve got something.’

Jimmy Price’s voice draws his attention from the shattered window and Jack turns, sweeping dismissive eyes over the grand piano and marble busts to settle, dark and gleaming, on the old-fashioned camera and tripod. Brian Zeller’s blue-gloved hands have it righted and already dusted for fingerprints, but Jimmy’s tech-savvy abilities have managed to yield greater results. There is no sound, but Jack’s jaw clenches hard enough to ache when the image focuses, revealing Hannibal, slumped down and sweating, pressing a hand to his stomach.

‘Son-of-a-bitch was _filming_ it,’ Zeller mutters, shaking his head as they all crowd around.

‘He’s wounded,’ Price says, and Jack hums acknowledgement.

‘Gunshot?’

‘Looks like.’

‘Pause it,’ Jack snaps, pointing towards the little screen again. ‘See, right there; he looks off to the side, to something behind the camera.’

‘Some _one_?’ Price suggests, and Jack’s heart skips a beat. _Will…_

‘Keep playing,’ he growls.

Another moment of silence – Dolarhyde speaking, perhaps – and then Hannibal’s eyes return to the camera, staring deep into the lens and creating the unsettling impression that he planned it all, that he intended for Jack and his team to see this… The fine hairs stand erect on the back of his neck, and he represses a shiver.

‘There’s something else happening off-screen,’ Zeller says, gesturing to the camera. ‘See, Hannibal’s expression here?’

‘We think Dolarhyde attacked Will,’ Price adds, and Jack frowns.

‘Why do you think that?’ he asks, and both forensic investigators nod to the camera.

‘Watch,’ Zeller says. Another moment of focus on Hannibal’s face, and Jack’s gut clenches into an icy knot at the sheer _fury_ in the man’s eyes. At the blank calmness that then comes over his face, like a sense of peace. They watch as Hannibal rises, the camera wobbling as it is lifted. Hannibal smiles into the lens before setting the tripod on a higher surface – the piano, Jack guesses – and shrugs out of his ruined blazer.

He rolls up the sleeves of his grey cashmere sweater, and leans in very close to the lens. Although they cannot hear the words he speaks, there is no mistaking the name on Hannibal’s lips.

_Hello, Jack._

Hannibal speaks again, and there is a moment of blurred action, darkness, before he manages to get the camera to focus. Jack, Price and Zeller see two men fighting in the courtyard – Will and Dolarhyde, before Hannibal joins the fray.

It’s carnage. Within minutes, Dolarhyde is crippled, torn down like a stag by two wolves. Only these wolves are men. Two men, who gut him and bite out his throat, before leaving him to fall and bleed out onto the cold concrete.

‘The Dragon needed to be killed,’ Jack mutters, knowing how desperate it sounds. Zeller and Price exchange an uncomfortable look, but neither dares stop the recording, and bile rises in Jack’s throat as he watches Will reach for Hannibal. Watches them _embrace_ , as intimate as lovers, and then –

‘Oh my _God_.’ His head comes up, his eyes wide, and he’s running from the beach house, across the courtyard to the edge of the cliff where he saw, recorded on silent film, Will and Hannibal fall to their deaths. ‘Get the coastguard out here!’ he bellows, his voice whipped up and away by the bitter wind coming in from the sea. ‘Search the rocks, the shoreline, _anything_ for two bodies!’

‘Jack…’ Coming up behind him, Zeller bounces on his toes to ward off the chill and the icy tension radiating from his boss. Price hovers behind him, equally nervous as Jack turns.

‘Don’t say it,’ Jack growls, stabbing a finger towards them in warning. ‘We don’t know _anything_ yet. We don’t know why he did it… We just need to find them.’

 _Please be dead,_ he thinks, staring down at the ruined body of Francis Dolarhyde. _Please… Please be dead._

***

Three years ago, watching Hannibal kneel before the FBI, surrendering his freedom for a life of fetid captivity, Chiyoh had felt something break within her. She had longed to squeeze the trigger, to take down every agent, but a sharp glance from her mentor had stilled her. This was his choice; for Will. He would endure; for Will, so that the other man would know where to find him when he was ready.

Hannibal loved Will more than anything. More than himself.

The last person to receive the depth of Hannibal’s affection had been his sister, Mischa. But she was long dead; nothing but dust and bone in the cold earth of the Lithuanian estate. Will Graham was still alive.

‘Hannibal! Hannibal, LOOK AT ME!’

Now, heaving his sodden body onto the yacht deck, Chiyoh doesn’t know if the wet on her cheeks is from tears, sweat or sea-water. She ignores the burning pain in her arms, and drags him to the glass doors of the living area, where a second body already waits.

Will Graham lies very still, cocooned in thermal blankets with a heat pack on his chest, over his heart. Chiyoh closes the doors, sealing them in the sweltering room, and sets to work peeling the freezing clothes from Hannibal’s body.

The yacht is a luxurious 35m boat, well-stocked and fully equipped. After Hannibal’s incarceration at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Chiyoh had returned here, to the secret beach house, to await his inevitable return.

No bars could hold such power forever.

Hannibal had brought people here in the past. Women. Miriam Lass, Abigail Hobbs… When he arrived with Will Graham, Chiyoh had known what to do. Without allowing Will to see her, she had ducked out, and driven her motorcycle to the marina. Brought the boat around to the smuggler’s cove and then sat in the Captain’s chair, watching the house’s security camera feed on the screens before her, waiting for Hannibal and Will to descend the hidden stairs carved into the side of the cliff and make good their escape.

Her heart had raced when she realized they were being attacked. Skipped a beat when she saw their triumph, and then squeezed tight at their embrace… At the _honesty_ of it.

But then Will had _pushed_ Hannibal, pushed them _both_ from the bluff, and suddenly she was scrambling to start the engine, to weigh anchor and bring the yacht around.

To pull them from the water before they drowned.

‘Hannibal…’

Chiyoh’s voice is little more than a whisper, and her gloved fingers tremble as she strokes back a strand of greying hair from her mentor’s forehead. She has wrapped him in more of the same thermal blankets, and placed the last heat pack on his chest. She uses her teeth to help pull off her soaking gloves, and presses her warm fingertips to the side of his throat, closing her eyes in a silent prayer. He is badly injured, and the shock of hitting the water could easily have killed him.

_Please… Please…_

There’s a pulse.

Her relief is so sudden and sweet that she feels dizzy. It’s weak, but Hannibal is alive. He’s _alive_.

Chiyoh presses a kiss to the older man’s cheek, murmuring words of encouragement and praise in Japanese. He doesn’t stir, even at the familiar tongue, and she knows that there is still a very good chance that he will die. He is wounded; his side stinks of gunpowder, his shoulder is dislocated and the slant of his hips suggested a fracture. But she also knows that Hannibal _wants_ to live, he has always wanted to live, and that he is the strongest person she’s ever met.

Hannibal will survive this.

She turns to Will. Drying salt forms crystals in his curls and on his eyelashes, thick and dark against his cheeks. Chiyoh’s expression hardens for a moment, but she doesn’t hesitate. Just checks for the thump of his heartbeat, stronger than Hannibal’s and improving with every minute he is in the warmth. Will’s injuries rival Hannibal’s and his breathing is labored. Blood seeps from the gash on his face, and his right eye has swollen shut. A dark stain spreads from the stab wound in his shoulder and his legs are broken, one foot turned the wrong way and the skin grotesquely contorted where the bone juts out.

Both men need to be in a hospital; Chiyoh knows this isn’t something she can fix herself. She doubts it’s something even Hannibal can fix, if and when he regains consciousness.

Chiyoh shrugs out of her coat, ignoring the sweat trickling down her back from the humid temperature inside the yacht, and fetches Hannibal’s medical kit from below deck. Stitches and bindings will have to do for now.

Hannibal’s gunshot is the worst injury that she can see. Will has bruising spreading across his ribs, indicating broken bones, but she doesn’t think any organs have ruptured. No way to know for sure without a scan, and she needs to prioritize her care.

Cutting through Hannibal’s sweater, the cashmere stiff with salted blood, she tugs it from his abdomen and leans closer to inspect the wound. A clean shot; aimed to miss the vital organs, though it’s likely nicked his intestine, which means blood poisoning… An exit and entry wound – the bullet is not lodged inside him. That’s good. One less thing to worry about.

Hannibal has always had several escape plans. If she can find a surgeon, he can live, and they can flee to South America. To the house in Acapulco, or the one near Buenos Aires.

Dousing the wound in antiseptic, Chiyoh packs the holes and binds his midsection in sterile bandages. It’s crude, but she doesn’t want to risk sewing him up and sealing an infection inside him. The older man’s breathing is shallow and his forehead shines with sweat. Frowning to herself, Chiyoh dips her head lower to the moving lips, watching as Hannibal’s eyelids flicker as though he is trying to wake.

‘M’scha… M’scha…’

Chiyoh’s breath catches, and she grips Hannibal’s hand tight. Considers sedating him, to ease the pain of memories, but she won’t risk the effect it could have on him ever regaining consciousness. The last thing she wants to do is trap him in a nightmare forever.

Re-wrapping Hannibal in the thermal blankets, she shoves her a stray lock of black hair from her face and turns her attention to Will. The cut on his cheek is vicious, but thankfully he remains silent and still when she pulls on a fresh pair of gloves and reaches into his mouth to check the extent of the damage. His tongue will heal; the cheek requires stitches, inside and out.

Sighing to herself, she repeats the cleaning process, dabbing the iodine right into the torn flesh before stitching the jagged line as best she can. The inner stitches are more difficult, and she doubts her needlework, whilst good, is as neat as Hannibal’s.

‘You can correct me when you recover,’ she murmurs, glancing down at her mentor as though he has given her the impassive, calculating look that meant she’s made a mistake. ‘Better to have a terrible scar and survive, than be a beautiful corpse.’

Peeling off her blood-smeared gloves, Chiyoh wipes fresh sweat from her face and stares down at the two men. It is approximately two days down the coast to Florida, depending on weather, and from there, Cuba. She will need to stop to refuel, and hope that the FBI do not catch them before she can slip past the American border…

Sighing to herself, she sets a timer to return below deck to check on them in half an hour, and then climbs back upstairs to the captain’s chair. Sets their course for Miami and weighs anchor.

She can only hope they have enough of a head start.

***

_‘…It’s beautiful.’_

He remembers falling. Remembers hitting the rocks and then tumbling into the freezing Atlantic, his bones shattered and skin torn apart. Remembers Hannibal shouting for him, gasping in panic, and Will had shouted back before he sank beneath the waves, his lungs filling with liquid fire before darkness swallowed him whole.

_Why aren’t I dead?_

The shift from dream to reality happens slowly, and, as he comes awake, a detached part of Will feels curious at the pang of regret at leaving the scene behind.

In his dream, he had been sitting with Hannibal in his old Baltimore office. The familiar burgundy walls, dark wood and modern furniture had soothed him, and Will had found himself relaxing into the soft leather of his armchair. In the distance, though, he’d heard the cry of sea birds and the chatter of dolphins, and some part of him had known they were suspended in time, beyond the reach of the world.

 _Your memory palace is growing_. Hannibal’s voice in his head; a memory inside the dream. _It shares some rooms with my own._

Was it _his_ mind, or Hannibal’s?

It could have been either. The other man looked good; his hair longer and styled as it had been before his incarceration… Hannibal was slimmer, his skin darker from the Florentine sun, and he wore a cream check suit. That was how Will had remembered him. How he would _always_ remember him.

Smiling his inscrutable smile, Hannibal had held out a teacup for Will to take.

‘Since the fifteenth century, the Japanese have practiced the art of _kintsugi_ , meaning “golden repair”.’

His voice had been muted, but very real, as though murmured into his ear rather than spoken across from him. Will had taken the teacup, turning the delicate china over in his hands, his gaze never once leaving Hannibal’s face.

_Do you ache for him?_

Bedelia had asked him that, but he hadn’t been able to answer then.

_I could now._

‘They take what is broken and piece it back together with a special lacquer,’ Hannibal had continued. ‘What is created is art itself. Seams of gold in the cracks, giving _each_ piece a completely unique appearance.’

Fear tickles up his spine, stealing into his waking self, and Will wonders how scarred he is. How _unique_ his appearance has become…

The pain as he becomes fully conscious is overwhelming, and dizziness threatens to drag him back down before he snatches a breath. As he gasps, Will realizes how _dry_ his mouth and throat are. His tongue feels swollen, sticking to his teeth, brushing over the sharp nubs of stitches in his cheek.

‘Gently, Will. You don’t want you puncture your lung again, do you?’

Hannibal’s voice, the same gentle murmur from his dream; breath puffing across his ear as Will fights morphine-heavy eyelids…

 _He’s alive. Hannibal is alive, too._ _We survived…_

Blinking, he tries to clear the haze from his vision. He can see a shape before him, blurred and indistinct, and his heart pounds in his battered chest.

He needs to know it’s really him.

‘’An-bal…’

His croak is pitiful, but a moment later, ice touches his cracked lips. Meltwater trickles into his mouth, sweet as nectar, though the contrast only serves to remind him very _thirsty_ he is. Will swallows, trying to open his jaw to take the cube whole, and fresh pain shoots through his temples.

Seeing the other man wince, Hannibal withdraws the ice and sets it back into the cup on the side table. Moving carefully, so as not to pull his own stitches, he reaches up to increase the morphine dose, and then drops his hand to Will’s, mindful of the butterfly IV.

‘Rest,’ he says, giving Will’s fingers a gentle squeeze. ‘You’re safe.’

_You’re safe…_

The words drift through his mind, skimming the surface of his thoughts like leaves on a pond. Will can see a monster lurking in the depths, uncoiling and rising ever higher, and he has the strangest sensation of pressure against his forehead, like lips.

Leaning forwards despite the pain it causes him, Hannibal presses a chaste kiss to Will’s head, wishing he could stroke his hair. But his left arm is in a cast and sling, the major bones fractured, as well as his collarbone, which sends shooting agony through him with every breath. His hip aches from being re-set, protesting his upright position, and his core is pitifully weak from the gunshot wound, which had barely missed his liver _and_ nicked his bowel.

The surgeon in Miami had been wonderfully co-operative, with the right incentive. Chiyoh, rifle in hand, had stood watch during Hannibal’s operations, and they had both been present when Will’s spine was braced, his leg bones pinned and a kidney removed. An MRI had revealed severe concussion in the smaller man, and Hannibal had insisted on constant observation until Will regained consciousness.

‘If,’ the surgeon had said, and Hannibal had silenced him by cutting out his tongue.

‘ _When_.’

Now, sitting upright in the padded chair in the master bedroom of his new yacht, harbored in a private marina south of Miami, Hannibal fights the exhaustion dragging at him.

His pain levels are creeping ever higher, but he refuses to take more than the minimum dose of ibuprofen and paracetamol, saving the precious stolen opiates for Will. He cannot risk a lapse in concentration, either; not with the other man’s condition so critical.

He knows he needs to sleep, to continue healing, but the sight of Will _awake_ and so very much _alive_ , after so many days on the edge of death…

His heart stumbles, and Hannibal swallows the lump in his throat. Will is conscious; he’s _conscious_ , and he’s going to be _fine_.

‘ _Kintsugi_ celebrates the artefact’s unique history,’ he continues hoarsely, grounding himself in the facts. It will provide an anchor for Will, as well, as he drifts in a drug haze.  ‘By emphasizing the fractures and breaks, the repaired piece is often more beautiful than the original, revitalizing it with new life.’

Returning to his dream, Will turns the teacup over in his hands. Golden cracks wink in the lamplight, but his fingers are damp, and he realizes that he is smearing blood over the white china.

_The Dragon’s blade went deep…_

Will reaches up, his hand trembling, and feels the knife protruding from his cheek. When he glances at him, Hannibal is soaking wet and shivering, his greying hair cut short and skin pale from years in prison.

_You turned yourself in, so I would always know where to find you, when I needed you._

‘I need you,’ he whispers, letting the teacup slip from his grasp.

Time slows, allowing both Will and Hannibal to stand, coming together. They embrace, bloody and victorious, just as they did on the edge of the cliff.

The teacup shatters.

_A place was made for all of us._

Time reverses. Will can _see_ the fight undoing, each wound repaired. His face is whole. Hannibal is not shot…

Hannibal’s escape, the plan… The fire… The Leeds and Jakobis…

_It never happened._

Terror grips him, a swarm of buzzing wasps in his ears.

_No… No… It had to happen… It had to. I can’t go back… I can’t go back to that life… That lie._

‘Since its conception,  _kintsugi_  has been influenced by many different philosophical ideas.’ Hannibal’s voice, and the vague feeling of his hand on his, is the only thing keeping the panic at bay. ‘Most notably, the Japanese philosophy of seeing beauty in the flawed or imperfect.’

_An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the subconscious. An ideal…_

_Neither one of us perfect…_

_I wanted to run away with him._

‘It’s beautiful.’

They are panting, gripping tight to each other as they fight collapse. Will can feel the heat radiating from Hannibal’s body, joining with his own until he’s certain they will set fire to the very air around them.

He’s never felt so alive.

_I love you._

‘The method of repairing something with gold was also born from the feeling of  _mottainai_ ; re-using something so as not to regret it wasted…’ Hannibal’s voice, fading now. ‘As well as  _mushin_ , which is the acceptance of change.’

Staring at the shattered china, Will watches the pieces come together, rising to sit like a dove in his hands. There is more gold, now, sealing the cracks together, gleaming as he cradles the fragile cup between his palms.

Will looks into Hannibal’s eyes, his chest hurting and heart pounding at the raw emotion he sees in the other man. Hannibal _loves_ him; he has hurt him, he will continue to hurt him, but there is truly _nothing_ that he wouldn’t do for him.

‘You turned yourself in… for me.’

Hannibal’s eyes flicker, wet with unshed tears. He lifts a hand to hold the side of Will’s face, thumb brushing the blood seeping from his punctured cheek. A thousand things hanging in the air between them...

‘I was worried you were dead.’

_Do you ache for him?_

Bedelia’s voice, slithering inside his skull. A heartbeat, growing ever louder… Will looks down, and flinches when he sees the curved knife in Hannibal’s hand. He remembers the pain of being gutted, of having to hold his insides to keep them from spilling out… Shakes his head, sweat prickling his forehead.

‘N-no… d-don’t…’

He jerks, grabbing for the other man as Hannibal plunges the blade deep into his own chest. Blood sprays his face, burning hot and blinding. He blinks furiously, watching as Hannibal, his jaw clenched and skin grey with pain, digs his fingers inside his own body to tear out his heart.

‘Hannibal…’

A spark catches in the hot air and fire licks up the sides of the throbbing muscle. Blood sizzles, but Will isn’t afraid. He _understands._

He steps impossibly closer, holding out his hands to accept the offering. The teacup is gone, and Hannibal drops his burning heart into Will’s palms, to be cradled, safe and cherished, until he lowers his mouth to take a bite.

_This is my becoming._

***

When he wakes later, Will has a single, gut-wrenching moment where he thinks he is at home with Molly and Walter. He opens his eyes, seeing the rough-wood bedroom ceiling, the slant of early morning sunshine and, in his peripheral, the patchwork blanket Molly inherited from her grandmother.

_No… No, please no…_

Blinking, Will’s reality shifts and the illusion shatters. He sees a white ceiling, warmed by sunlight, which ripples over the paint and down the walls. He knows that ripple…

 _Water… I’m on a boat_.

Will blinks again, hearing the clicks of his eyes. Glances down and sees that he is lying in a large bed, the white covers turned down so as not to put pressure on his bandaged abdomen.

_A place was made for all of us…_

The world tilts, and Will has to close his eyes again, fighting nausea. God; where _is_ he? A boat… _Where?_ And where’s Hannibal? Oh God, where’s Hannibal? Was it a dream?

_Please… Please… It can’t have been a dream… He was there… He was really there…_

‘’Annib’l?’

With his throat so dry, his voice is barely a whisper, swallowed by the size of the room. Will tries to shift, wondering if he can sit up, but an odd combination of eye-watering pain and heavy-muscled numbness freezes him in place.

_Have I broken my spine?_

The thought comes quickly – they fell off a _cliff_ – and takes root. Will closes his eyes and tries to wiggle his toes, praying to a nameless God that he is alright. Risks a glance down the bed and almost _sobs_ when the blankets shift with the movement. Does it again, just to prove to himself that he _can_ , and huffs a laugh that sends agony ripping through his back.

 _Oh._ It _hurts…_ But pain is good. Pain means sensation, and sensation means he should be able to walk… To run… To fight…

A sound catches his attention, and Will looks up to see Hannibal standing in the doorway. His heart swells and then skips a beat, stuttering into a rapid tempo that batters against his ribcage. The other man is pale and drawn, his face lined with pain. He looks every one of his forty-seven years, the sunlight catching the silver in his hair and making it glow.

Ignoring the ache of his fractured hip and his throbbing stomach, Hannibal smiles to see Will awake. The smaller man’s curls are a mess, his body a canvas of mottled bruises and scrapes over pallid skin. His face is still swollen, forcing his right eye shut, and the stitches stand out, dark and ugly, against his purple cheek.

He is beautiful.

‘Hello, Will.’

His voice, when he speaks, is barely more than a whisper. Hannibal swallows, finding his throat quite dry. He limps closer, clenching his jaw against the agony of moving so as not to let on how bad his injuries are. Projects the impression that he is simply a little bruised, a little scraped, nothing more.

Will, of course, sees through the façade.

‘You look awful,’ he rasps, immediately closing his eyes and grimacing. ‘Hmm…’ He curls one hand into a loose fist on the covers, clearly fighting nausea, mostly likely at the feel of using his sliced tongue.

Hannibal can sympathize. They are both exhausted, and frustrated at how weak they are. How helpless. Their injuries are severe, and it will take more than a few days to heal. In a show of solidarity, and perhaps because he cannot really stop it, he allows himself a single wince as he lowers himself into the chair beside Will’s bed. However, as much as he wants to hold his stomach, to protect the gunshot from the world, he forces himself to clasp his hands in his lap, feigning a relaxed manner.

Will needs him to be strong and stable, as always. The foundation on which their friendship rests.

‘I imagine we both look significantly better than last week,’ he replies, and watches Will’s left eye widen at the reference to such a passing of time. ‘And we shall continue to look better with each day.’

Feeling like his arm is filled with sand, Will manages to lift his left hand and brings it to his face. He glances at Hannibal, who watches impassively as he runs trembling fingertips over the puffed, ridged scar.

‘Chiyoh did what she could, and I neatened your stitches when I regained consciousness,’ Hannibal explains. ‘Once the swelling subsides, we will be better able to assess the damage, and can discuss the possibility of reparative surgery, if need be.’

_By emphasizing the fractures and breaks, the repaired piece is often even more beautiful than the original, revitalizing it with new life…_

Will shakes his head.

‘S’just a scar,’ he slurs, letting his hand fall to the mattress again. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Doesn’t matter to _me_ , Will,’ Hannibal promises, and his sharp eyes catch the faint shiver his words elicit. He brushes a crease from his pale trousers, giving his companion a moment to compose himself before he speaks again. ‘I thought you might like to know our location.’

At the faint nod from the other man, he smiles.

‘Florida. A few miles south of Miami. Once our business here has been attended to, we are bound for Cuba, and then on to Buenos Aires. I have a house there, and money. We shall be quite content.’

Will is silent, waiting for the other foot to fall. For Hannibal’s calm demeanor to shatter, and the seething monster to return. The one who gutted him. The one who sawed into his skull to eat his brain…

Hannibal, watching the prone man trembling before him, indulges himself the desire to torture Will for a while longer. After all, he _did_ try to kill them. Again. And Hannibal is nothing if not a sadist. But the game has changed, now, and he wants Will to be his partner. His equal.

After a moment, he sighs, and places his hand over the IV in the back of Will’s palm.

‘You have nothing to fear from me,’ he murmurs, squeezing gently. ‘I forgive you.’

_I don’t know if I can save myself… And maybe that’s just fine._

Will remembers telling Hannibal his intention… Remembers the decision he had made, before the transfer. To die fighting the Dragon, or kill himself afterwards. One last chance to save the world from their destructive force, because he couldn’t fight it anymore.

He couldn’t fight _Hannibal_ anymore.

‘I cannot, of course, allow you to leave,’ Hannibal continues, speaking lightly but staring at him with steely intent. ‘I let you walk away from me once before, Will, but not again. Where you go, I too shall follow. And where I go, you will join me.’

_Conjoined..._

For some reason, the thought doesn’t stifle Will like it used to. It doesn’t scare him. As though the ocean has washed away those parts of him still weighing him down. Releasing him to accept the truth.

He’s never really been free of the other man. He wants to be honest, now. With himself, and with Hannibal, so he nods, just once, and watches the other man smile. It warms Hannibal’s face, making his dark eyes sparkle and crease in the corners. His hair, still short from the cheap cut in the prison, hangs over his forehead, and Will has the absurd urge to brush it away. Or to mess it up.

He gets as far as lifting his arm before pain radiates out from his lower back, stopping him with a hiss.

‘Rest,’ Hannibal says, bright-eyed and brisk at the depth of emotion on Will’s face. The raw _need_ and desire… Everything he had ever hoped for, but never dared to imagine. Is he imagining it now?

He clears his throat, and pats Will’s hand.

‘We have all the time in the world.’

About to rise, a low moan from the bed stops him. Pausing, Hannibal looks back at the other man, whose brow is creased and mouth downturned, feebly reaching for him despite the pain it causes. Hannibal tilts his head, sinking back into the cushioned chair, and returns his hand to Will’s immobile right arm.

‘Stay,’ Will rasps, managing to lace their fingers together. ‘Please…?’

‘Of course,’ Hannibal replies, rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth over Will’s knuckles. He grins, and leans down to add conspiratorially, ‘Although, I suspect Chiyoh will be angry to know I am not lying down. She’s grown quite disparaging of me, as you can imagine. Doctors make the worst patients, after all.’

_The bullet had passed clean through Hannibal’s gut, shattering the bottle of wine in his hand. When he’d pressed a palm to his wound, it had come away bloody._

_He’d been shot._

Will huffs, angry with himself for not remembering. For being so selfish, languishing in a big, clean bed while Hannibal… What? Suffers?

Since when has that upset him? 

He twitches his fingers away, earning himself a frown, but Hannibal’s hurt and confusion changes to dawning realization and something sweeter, something more vulnerable, when Will pats the mattress beside him with his left hand.

‘Don’t martyr yourself,’ Will mumbles, scowling at the feel of a gap in his upper jaw. He’s missing at least one molar, thanks to the Dragon. ‘C’mere.’

‘Will…’ Hannibal searches Will’s face for a sign of hesitation, but he sees none. Just an exhausted man, unwilling to allow his friend to suffer unnecessarily. And so he nods, just once, and pushes up from the chair, making his way, slowly and carefully, to the other side of the bed.

Will holds his breath as Hannibal pulls down the covers, and tenses at the dip of the mattress as the other man lowers himself to lie down. Hannibal groans as he stretches his body out, hands fluttering around his abdomen, the wounds hidden beneath a linen shirt. Will wants to see, but he’s in no fit state to insist, so he forces himself to accept the fact that Hannibal is going to pretend he’s stronger than he is.

For now.

Once the other man has settled, Will searches with his left hand, reaching out until he touches skin again. Hannibal’s wrist, and then his palm, upturned so that they can resume holding hands. A simple touch, a gesture of comfort, but one that makes his heart skip a beat. He rolls his head on the pillow, watching Hannibal from the corner of his left eye, and sees him smile. Sees the tension melt from his shoulders, smoothing years from his face, until he’s an echo of the man he once was, three years before he incarcerated himself for Will.

Before he chose to wait, until Will was ready.

Sleep tugs at him, and Will’s eyelid grows heavy. He listens to the slow, deep rasp of Hannibal’s breath, feeling the steady pulse beneath his fingertips, and a sense of peace settles over him, filling him with such sweet calm that he half expects it to snatch his breath. But it doesn’t. He just drifts, perfectly content, his mind quieted for the first time in years.

_We’re safe… And we’re together…_

As he drifts back to dreams, Will is vaguely aware of his own lips tugging upwards.

Maybe not dying is okay, after all.


	2. Purgatory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps, sorry this took so long to write. I've been hard at work on my own novel, Hybrid, which my wife has kindly agreed to read as a free audiobook on her YouTube channel, so much editing has been happening to get it audience-ready!
> 
> Hopefully the next instalment won't take as long to write!

TWO

_Purgatory_

 

_Molly has always smelled good, like fresh laundry and flowers, but the saltiness of blood on her skin is by far his favorite._

Burying his nose in the crook of her elbow, Will licks great stripes through the crimson smearing his wife’s creamy flesh. He takes a deep breath, savoring the delicate aroma, and stares up at her face. At the shards of mirror embedded in her eyes and mouth, obscuring her features. Changing her. Transforming her.

 _This is my design_.

He kneels over her, straddling her hips, a hunting knife in his hand. Brings the sharp blade to her shirt, snapping button threads with soft snicks until the material falls to either side of her lacy bra. He feels a flicker of desire, remembering how it feels to fall asleep with his cheek pressed to one of the soft mounds, Molly’s heartbeat strong and loud in his ear and a spit-soaked nipple at his lips. But her breasts do not interest him now. Her outside is not what matters.

He wants the meat she can offer him.

Rasping the edge of the blade over the expanse of bared skin beneath him, Will angles the knife so that the tip is aimed at Molly’s navel. Takes the handle in both hands, in a firm, steady grip – _a confident grip –_ and then plunges it deep inside her.

Slicing through her abdomen, his mouth waters at the sight of skin and muscle parting for him. A thin layer of yellow fat protects Molly’s vital organs, making them slippery to touch, and he cradles her liver in both hands as he eases it from behind coiled intestines. Severs it from the major blood vessels with a quick upwards tug of the knife and sets it down on the patchwork quilt.

_Her grandmother made that… Wally loved to curl up in it during the winter…_

Turning, Will looks down at the cowering boy. Walter’s tear-stained face turns upwards, glaring at him from behind the wad of fabric gagging him. Will watches his arm move, swing outwards and drag the knife across the boy’s throat. A slit appears in red, widening before his eyes and spraying brilliant arterial red across the floorboards.

_I’ve always wanted to do that._

Will jerks awake, breathing hard and slick with sweat. He twists and grabs at the covers beside him, so sure they’ll be soaked in blood that when his hand comes away clean, he has to double check.

Pain rips through him, and blood _does_ drip onto the white sheets, but it’s coming from him. From his face. His cheek. Will flops back, pressing a hand to his splintered ribs, unable to stop himself from cringing as he feels bones grind together.

‘Will.’

Hannibal’s soft voice draws his attention, and Will looks over to see the other man emerge from the bathroom, drying his hands on a small towel. He looks better than before; his cuts and bruises fading as days slide into weeks, wearing a dark button-down sweater and grey slacks. The cast on his right arm has been removed, though he still rests the arm in a sling, and his hesitant movements reveal the vulnerability of his abdominal wound.

‘You were having another nightmare,’ Hannibal murmurs, setting the towel on a chair and limping closer. Even though it isn’t a question, Will still nods his agreement, and Hannibal sighs. He gestures to the unmade side of the bed. ‘May I?’

‘Yeah,’ Will whispers, reaching with his good hand to tug the covers back for the other man. Despite sleeping in the same bed since the first day Will told Hannibal to join him, he has continued to ask permission whenever Will is awake.

Hannibal lowers himself to the mattress and releases a long, slow breath, belying how much pain he is in, and Will frowns at him, blinking with both eyes now that the swelling on his right cheek has subsided.

‘You’re not giving _me_ all the morphine, are you?’ he asks. A suspicious lack of response has him growling under his breath. ‘ _Hannibal…_ ’

‘Pain is merely a sensation,’ Hannibal murmurs. ‘And nothing that cannot be ignored and controlled.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Will’s language earns him a reproachful look, but he doesn’t care. Hannibal is so _frustrating_. ‘You’re the doctor,’ he snaps. ‘You tell me what happens when a patient doesn’t take the right dose of pain meds.’

‘My body is healing perfectly well,’ Hannibal replies. He grins, dark eyes sparkling. ‘Though I appreciate the concern.’

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Will looks away. Uses his left hand to tug the covers up a little higher on his hips, remembering that he’s clad only in boxers. He doesn’t blame Hannibal for not dressing him; his abdominal bandages cover most of his torso, and both his legs are in casts, propped up with pillows beneath the knees. His right arm remains bound from fingers to shoulder, and the brace down his spine doesn’t allow for much movement, but it’s always disconcerting to be so naked compared to the fully dressed man.

Hannibal adjusts his weight, easing the pressure on his hip, and turns to lie on his side, propped up by a mound of pillows so that he can look down at Will.

‘Would you like to talk about your dream?’ he asks softly, and Will glares at him. At his poise, even when badly hurt. For the last few weeks, Hannibal has appeared calm and unperturbed by his injuries, while Will continues to feel sticky and uncomfortable. His hair needs another wash, and everything _aches_.

‘No,’ he mutters. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Given their frequency and severity, I must disagree,’ Hannibal replies. Will swallows again, moving his tongue carefully inside the tender cavern of his mouth. He sighs, glancing up into a surprisingly gentle burgundy gaze.

‘I saw myself killing Molly and Walter,’ he whispers, hating the way Hannibal’s face tightens at the names. ‘Cutting into her and removing her _liver_ … For you.’

A flicker of something, gone so fast he can’t place it, but Will watches the tension melt from the refined features and he hates that he likes it.

_I know what my dream means. I’ve chosen Hannibal over them. Over my wife and son._

He looks away, his eyes burning. Focuses on the details of his surroundings to ground himself. He listens to the waves lapping up against the edges of the yacht, and the feel of the boat swaying gently under the swell. Through the open portholes along the far wall, the breeze carries the faint cries of gulls and, if he concentrates, perhaps even the odd sound of a person speaking.

‘Hannibal, are you not worried about security cameras?’ he asks, surprising himself with the question. He hadn’t expected to accept his new role of fugitive quite so soon.

He doesn’t look at him when he speaks; just allows his gaze to wander around the room as he lies, trapped by his own decisions, on the bed. The walls are painted white and navy blue, interspersed with dark wood and sleek silver fixtures. Sunlight bouncing off the sea outside sends the tell-tale ripples dancing across the ceiling, and Will takes in several slow, deep breaths, relishing the saltiness in the air.

_This feels more like home than Maryland ever did._

‘The FBI is still searching for our bodies,’ Hannibal murmurs, watching Will relax as he savors his surroundings. ‘We are presumed dead from the fall.’

‘Jack’ll keep looking for us,’ Will mutters, his fingers twitching at the name. Into a fist, Hannibal isn’t sure, for the other man smooths out his hand before it becomes obvious. ‘Molly will keep looking for me.’

‘Hm…’ Hannibal’s upper lip curls in disdain and his sharp eyes land on the plain gold bang still clinging to the fourth finger of Will’s left hand. As much as he had wanted to yank the thing off when Will was still unconscious and unable to stop him, more than anything, Hannibal wants _Will_ to be the one to remove it. For him. To shed the last vestiges of his old life, and embrace his true self, and their future together.

‘Are you… _jealous?’_

Hannibal blinks, and realizes, when Will moves his hand away, that he had been glaring at the ring. He tracks his gaze up to Will’s face, bruised but no longer swollen, the outer stitches nearly ready to be removed, and settles on the beautiful blue-green eyes of the man before him. Will has always been the perfect model for sketching; layers of darkness bleeding through cracks in his innocence, wise beyond his years and yet achingly young in his vulnerability. He opens his mouth to answer, but words fail him, and he swallows, suddenly nervous.

Will wets his lips.

‘Y’know… I asked Bedelia something, before I broke you free,’ he says, his chest tightening at the look of _hunger_ and _devotion_ on Hannibal’s face. He’s never had _anyone_ look at him that way… Never had anyone _care_ about him the way Hannibal cares.

He pauses, pleased when he only tastes a hint of blood at the continued use of his tongue. Tries to remind himself that Hannibal’s _care_ has often led to his pain and the destruction of everything he loves, but it doesn’t have the same conviction as before. Now, when he thinks of his old life, it feels faded. Like a poor quality reconstruction of some grand tapestry, lacking the depth and clarity of the real thing.

Hannibal hums, and his eyes flash with a different kind of hunger, sending a thrill of fear down Will’s spine.

‘And how _is_ Dr Du Maurier?’ the other man asks, all but _purring_ at the idea of harming her. ‘I haven’t seen her since the trial, when she presented evidence against me in court.’

Will scoffs, his own darkness swelling as he remembers the way Bedelia’s hands had trembled on her crystal decanter, pouring herself a double whiskey when she heard that Hannibal was about to be released once more to prey upon the world…

_“Who holds the Devil, let him hold him well.”_

‘ _Scared_ ,’ he says. ‘She knows you’ll eat her, when you find her.’

Hannibal smiles, both for Will’s acceptance of him consuming the doctor, and for his confidence that he will track her down, now that he is free.

‘She always _was_ clever,’ he murmurs, and he reaches out with his bandaged hand, deceptively casual, to stroke a curl of brown hair back from Will’s forehead. In actuality, it is all he can do to keep from shaking, so long starved for human contact that Will’s physical presence is like a feast. After so many days lying by his side, he can no longer simply _look_ ; he must touch. ‘What did you ask her, Will?’

Swallowing hard enough to hear his throat catch, Will watches the tendons move in Hannibal’s wrist as the other man strokes his hair. Sees the line of silver scar tissue where he, through Matthew Brown, sliced him open to kill him, all those years ago. Sees the hands that have healed him and gutted him, hurt him and held him close. An endless pendulum swing from violence to love.

_If I’m to be Bluebeard’s wife, I would have preferred to be the last._

He remembers the moment he realized what Bedelia meant, when she stressed _last_. The way it had robbed him of breath. Of speech.

 _He_ was now Bluebeard’s wife. The holder of the key and the keeper of his master’s secrets. He had been here before… He had opened that door and paid dearly for it.

Bedelia had looked, too. She had peeled back the veil, touched the darkness within and run from it.

Will had never run.

Sitting there, in the deep armchair across from Dr Du Maurier, he had felt the earth shift beneath him. A cataclysmic change in his own mind, like the final swing of an axe.

He wanted the truth, and all its consequences.

When he’d spoken, his voice had been soft. Hesitant. There was no going back once he stepped from this precipice.

‘Is Hannibal... in love with me?’

And Bedelia, with her clever eyes and her sharp tongue, had quoted Dante at him. To taunt him with the _obviousness_ of her answer.

‘Could he daily feel a stab of hunger, and find nourishment at the very sight of you?’ A sigh. Small and weary. ‘Yes.’

_Yes._

_Hannibal is in love with you._

It would have been fine, he thinks. He could have understood that. Could have accepted it and returned to his life. His family, after the Dragon was defeated.

But Bedelia had never been one to let it go. Never known when to stop. She had seen in him that spark, that glint of something more, and, like Pandora faced with the _pithos_ , she had been curious to see what lay within.

_But do you ache for him?_

‘Will?’

Hannibal’s soft voice draws him back, and Will blinks. Brings his hand up to push Hannibal away and ends up twining their fingers together, his skin tingling at the contact.

‘Er…’ He clears his throat, hoping his cheeks aren’t blushing. ‘I er, I asked her what she thought you’d take, when you came for her.’

He sees the shrewd, calculating look on Hannibal’s face, and knows that his half-truth has not gone unnoticed. But Hannibal permits his lie, and merely begins playing with Will’s fingers, brushing lightly back and forth over his knuckles. It’s disconcerting how much he likes it, but Will can’t make himself pull away again. As much as he’s loath to admit it, he’s _missed_ the other man. Missed his casual touches and smiles. Missed their banter.

‘I’ve always admired her legs,’ Hannibal says lightly, his thumb massaging circles into Will’s palm. It feels good, and Will moans softly as the sensation sends warm, peaceful waves up his arm. ‘Her mind, of course.’

‘Her brain, you mean,’ Will mutters, mesmerized by Hannibal’s long fingers. ‘What about her heart?’

‘Doubtful.’ Hannibal dips his head towards Will’s hand, but the way the other man’s breath hitches gives him pause. He glances at Will’s face, certain that he sees desire and fear dancing in the crystalline depths of his open eye, and then continues his journey down.

He brushes his lips _so_ gently across the back of Will’s hand, breathing deep to steal the scent of salt, wood smoke and blood that is _Will Graham_ , underlaid with a smell that is growing stronger with every thud of his heart.

The unmistakable sweetness of desire.

‘There is only one heart I wish to take, now,’ he whispers, and he hears it again – the catch in Will’s breath, and the rough exhalation as his gut clenches at the words.

‘ _Hannibal_ …’

‘Chiyoh will be leaving us soon,’ Hannibal says, pulling back and resting their joined hands on the bedcover again. Returning to their accustomed closeness before his expression can betray him. ‘She is going ahead to prepare the house in Cuba.’

Hannibal’s withdrawal leaves Will feeling oddly bereft, and he can’t help but frown as the other man pulls away to leave a gap between them. His chest is tight with all the things he cannot say, and his heart flutters like a waking bird behind his ribs. He tightens his grip on Hannibal’s fingers and pulls him closer, tilting his forehead towards Hannibal’s shoulder as the other man returns to lying on his back. Their bodies press close, side by side, and only when Will is resting his temple against Hannibal’s shoulder can he breathe again.

‘How many houses do you have?’ he murmurs, feeling Hannibal’s chest rise before a low chuckle reverberates near his ear.

‘Enough to live a comfortable life, no matter the eventuality,’ the other man replies, returning to playing with Will’s fingers. ‘It’s a modest affair, but adequate for our purposes.’

Will snorts, imagining Hannibal’s version of modest, but he doesn’t argue.

They lie quietly for a while, idly toying with each other’s hands, appreciating the simple reassurance of physical contact.

‘We’ll need to begin your physiotherapy in a few more days,’ Hannibal says, prompting Will to glance up from his shoulder. ‘The nerve and muscle damage to your back will be sufficiently healed for you to begin exercising.’

‘Walking’s gonna be difficult,’ Will teases, nodding down to the leg casts obvious beneath the quilt. Hannibal smiles against his knuckles, and kisses them again.

‘There are plenty of exercises you can do in bed,’ he replies, just a _hint_ of something in his voice making Will blush again. He shifts, but before he can say anything in response, Hannibal is moving.

‘Time for lunch,’ the older man says, replacing his shoulder with a pillow to support Will’s head as he gets up. ‘Would you like some broth?’

‘Chicken soup?’ Will teases, managing a lopsided grin when Hannibal’s eyes sparkle with laughter at the memory – Will’s first hospitalization for the encephalitis. Hannibal had made silkie chicken in a broth, and explained the delicate flavors that he had spent hours balancing, only for Will to cut through his preening and say it for what it was. Chicken soup. A gesture of friendship and care.

_Had it been something more, even then?_

‘Andouille-crusted rock shrimp, with seasoned bomba rice in a lobster broth,’ Hannibal says, waiting expectantly. Will’s rusty brain dissects each ingredient and then he chuckles.

‘You made me jambalaya?’

‘A version thereof,’ Hannibal replies, smiling at the southern drawl creeping back into Will’s voice. ‘I thought you might appreciate a childhood dish during your recovery. Now that you’ve progressed onto solid foods.’

‘Sounds nicer than most of my childhood dishes,’ Will says, a hint of bitterness drying out his voice, and Hannibal’s jaw tightens a fraction before he nods and leaves the room.

Will sighs as he adjusts to the emptiness of the bed again, staring up at the ceiling. He waits, expecting to feel revulsion and doubt now that he’s alone. Since regaining consciousness, Hannibal has barely left his side, which Will has appreciated, as he’s not had time to _think._ Until now.

But, as the minutes tick by, instead of his expected panic, Will feels… calm. Peaceful, almost. His body still hurts – the pain is a constant knife on the edge of his consciousness – but his mind is quiet.

_Is this what contentment feels like?_

He fiddles with his wedding ring, nudging the plain band around his finger with his thumb before abandoning it to lift his knuckles to his own lips. Rests them there, right where Hannibal kissed him, and breathes slowly to capture any trace of the other man’s smell.

A hint of toothpaste, perhaps… Cologne? He might be imagining it.

His stomach growls with hunger, and Will sighs as he lets his arm drop. He’s still tired, and the swish of water outside is hypnotic… But he doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t want another nightmare…

Despite his best efforts, he must have drifted off because the next time he opens his eyes, Hannibal is back, and dozing in the chair beside him. The smell of onion and fish wafts up from the covered dish on the side table, and Will’s mouth waters in anticipation of the taste. Even restricted by a cramped yacht kitchen and limited supplies, Hannibal has continued to prepare him exquisite soups and dishes of seasoned scrambled eggs as he has begun to eat.

Ignoring his hunger, Will forces himself to lie quietly. He wants to take advantage of this rare opportunity to study Hannibal. It’s been years since the other man slept in his presence. Will remembers walking into Abigail’s hospital room, finding Hannibal asleep beside her, holding her hand to comfort her, even when unconscious, but that’s the only time that he can recall.

_We were her fathers… I had a child with Hannibal… A family._

His chest hurts, and there is an uncomfortable knot in his stomach. Will’s throat bobs and he tries to swallow the obstruction but it won’t shift.

_Do you ache for him?_

Bedelia’s question is a worm in his ear, and Will grits his teeth until the pain becomes unbearable. He tracks the lines around Hannibal’s closed eyes, his thin, cruel lips and sharp nose… Gaunt cheeks dusted with stubble and silver-flecked hair…

Nearing fifty and unable to exercise in his glass cage, Hannibal has softened in the waist, his skin grown sallow from lack of sunlight and poor nutrition. Will can see freedom slowly undoing the damage; skin beginning to glow again, growing more golden with each day in the Florida sun. Hair longer, pushed back from his high forehead and more blond than silver.

 _He’s so handsome,_ he thinks, nerves fluttering. _Have I always found him handsome?_

His attraction to Hannibal, right from the start, has always been complicated. Enigmatic and dangerous, Dr Lecter had been Will’s drug of choice until he chose to leave it behind for three years of quiet marriage, of boring domesticity. The separation had done nothing to cool his passion, and Hannibal had _seen_ just how much it affected him to return. To talk to him again. To engage in his riddles and games and blood-soaked bets.

_Was it good to see me?_

His taunting question, tossed out as casually as Will might toss live bait to a trout.

No. It had never been ‘good’ with Hannibal.

‘Good’ didn’t do it justice.  

_Powerful. Breathtaking. Destructive. Consuming._

These are words that Will has always associated with Hannibal. With _them_. Together, they are a force to be reckoned with. Beautiful and deadly.  

What he’d had with Molly was ‘good’.

What he has with Hannibal is something else entirely.

Lost in thought, Will jumps when he realizes Hannibal’s eyes are open. That he’s being watched in turn.

_Hannibal is in love with me._

Will blinks, surprised at his own courage to maintain the intensity of the gaze. He takes a slow, shaking breath, feeling the weight of anticipation pressing down onto his ribs. The stirrings of things long repressed but never forgotten.

‘How long was I asleep?’ he whispers, captivated by the maroon of Hannibal’s eyes. He’s never seen eyes quite like them.

‘A little over an hour,’ Hannibal replies, equally soft. He swallows, his heart battering a dent into the side of his ribs, lips and fingers tingling under Will’s scrutiny. Never before has he been worried, but he knows himself well enough to understand that he feels nervous.

He wants Will. Wants his acceptance, his friendship… His affection, ideally, though he’ll take whatever Will is willing to give. His pride is no longer relevant; he gave that up when he knelt in the snow and surrendered to the FBI. When he endured physical examinations, drug and electroshock therapies, and allowed Alana Bloom to remove his toilet.

He would do it all again, if Will asked him to. But only for Will. And only if he said 'please'.

‘That smells good,’ Will says, glancing towards the dish. ‘Is it for me?’

‘Mm.’ Hannibal nods, and swallows hard before wrenching himself away. He turns, biting his lip at the sharp pain, and wheels the table closer. ‘Let me help you up.’

Will nods, and watches as Hannibal collects a number of firm pillows to place behind his braced back. He feels the twinge as he rises ever more vertical, but the pain is significantly less than the first time they tried this.

When Will is upright enough that he can swallow without risk of choking, Hannibal wheels the little table closer and settles it over his lap. Aromatic steam rises from the bowl when he removes the Tupperware lid, and Will risks a ripped stitch to beam as he reaches for his spoon.

‘God, I was wrong; this is _amazing_ ,’ he says, scooping up some of the golden broth. He sips it as carefully as he can, wincing as the heat scours his cheek and tongue, and then decides that the pain is worth it for the flavor, and takes another mouthful. ' _Mmmm...'_

‘I’m glad you like it,’ Hannibal says, smiling at Will’s horrific slurping sounds. ‘Would you like some more morphine?’

Chewing slowly, Will considers the question. Considers the tightness in Hannibal’s shoulders, and gestures to him with the spoon.  

‘ _You_ take it,’ he says, earning himself a puzzled look. He holds it, not buying the innocent expression for one moment, and Hannibal sighs.

‘I’d rather be able to watch over you,’ the other man admits, and Will raises both eyebrows at him.

‘Hannibal. _Take_ the morphine. Let _me_ watch over _you_ for a bit.’

When Hannibal hesitates again, Will feels a flare of guilt. The last time Hannibal had been vulnerable with him, he’d been pushed from a cliff. It’s understandable that he’d be wary of trusting him again.

‘Chiyoh won’t let anything bad happen to you,’ he reasons. Ducks his head to catch the other man’s eye and adds, gently, ‘And neither will I. I promise.’

Another moment, and then Hannibal relents, nodding once. Brisk and practical. He rises, allowing Will to see a little more of his pain, and limps around to his side of the bed, collecting a syringe of morphine on the way.

Under Will’s watchful eye, he eases himself down onto his side of the mattress and prepares a dose. Wraps a rubber band around his bicep and then slides the needle into the crook of his elbow.

One last moment of apprehension, and then he plunges the morphine into his system. The liquid is cool entering his veins, but warms quickly. When Hannibal glances up, he finds Will watching, avidly, as a bead of bright red blood wells up when he withdraws the needle. Hannibal releases the band and swipes at the crimson, smearing it over his skin, his chest tightening in excitement when he hears Will’s breath catch at the sight of it.

‘Tell me, Will. How did it feel?’ he asks, deliberately gentle as he settles himself beside his companion. ‘When you gutted the Dragon?’

Will pauses, his spoon mid-air. He’s been expecting this conversation for some time, but it’s still difficult. Still sudden.

He sets the spoon down, staring at the remains of his broth, no longer hungry. Reaches for Hannibal, to lace his fingers with the other man’s, and finds a grounding comfort in the touch. Their thumbs swirl lazy patterns over each other’s palms, rubbing against knitting muscles and half-healed skin.

‘It felt _just_ ,’ he says, lowering his gaze to watch where they touch. ‘It felt _right_ , like I was... pieces of a whole, coming together for the first time.’

‘You felt powerful,’ Hannibal murmurs, and Will nods, worrying at his lower lip.

‘I felt _alive_.’

‘You accepted the truth about yourself,’ Hannibal says, his voice tight with the emotions he refuses to show. ‘You set yourself free from the restraints of your former life. Your values and decency.’

Will huffs. 

‘”No forts in the bone arena of my skull for things I love”,’ he mutters, blushing at the impish grin he receives for the quote.

‘You have a good memory,’ Hannibal says, smiling as he traces up and down the blue veins of Will’s inner wrist.

 _Only when it comes to you,_ Will thinks. Hannibal’s touch leaves a warm tingle in its wake and desire pools, hot and dangerous, in his lower belly, and before it can lead to anything more than an ache, Will clears his throat and frees his hand. He returns to eating, though the nerves swirling in his belly makes it difficult to swallow anything.

‘How do you think it would feel, to kill again?’ Hannibal asks, sharp eyes now fixed on Will’s pink cheeks. He’s not imagining that reaction. Will likes him. And what better way to encourage his affection than to remind him of the pleasure he feels when he kills, or thinks about killing?

Will shivers, swallowing hard before he sets the spoon down on the table.  

‘Dangerous,’ he admits, allowing his eyes to slip shut. ‘I think it would be… addictive… to kill the right person.’

‘Someone who deserves it,’ Hannibal says quietly, and Will’s breath shakes as he sighs.

He nods.

‘Someone worthy.' He looks down at Hannibal again. ‘Someone you denied me once before.’

Hannibal hums, feeling the heaviness of the morphine creep into the edges of his consciousness. He tips his head a fraction closer to Will, lips curving into another surprised, pleased smile when Will links their fingers together again. He brings Will’s hand up to his nose, tracing his lips across old scars from dog bites, carpentry and fishing.

‘Who have you been thinking about killing?’ he purrs, his own heart squeezing an extra beat when he feels Will’s pulse jump. Despite his heavy lids, his eyes flick open when Will lifts his hand up to his own mouth, and Hannibal’s chest tightens unbearably as Will presses a single, chaste kiss to his knuckles. ‘Will…’

‘Sleep,’ Will murmurs, lowering their joined hands to his lap. ‘You need it.’

Hannibal sighs, relaxing his muscles and sinking deeper into the mattress. The painkiller was an excellent suggestion; he hadn’t realized just how tense he had been until the sharpness dulled.

‘Will?’ he mumbles, barely able to open his eyes as exhaustion drags him down. ‘Who do you want to kill?’

Hannibal’s voice pulls Will back from watching his features slowly soften as sleep steals over him. He continues to stroke Hannibal’s palm, using the touch as a reason not to card his fingers through the silky, silver-streaked hair falling over Hannibal’s forehead.

‘Do you remember that social worker? The one killing all those girls?’ he says, pitching his voice low so as not to disturb Hannibal as he drifts out of consciousness.

‘Hm…’ Hannibal smiles, nodding. He shuffles ever nearer, seeking the warmth and comfort of Will’s body, half-afraid that he’ll hit the edge of his narrow prison bed and wake to discover that this has all been a drug-induced dream. ‘I remember...’

Tipping his head until he can smell antiseptic, bandages and _Will_ , no longer marred by that horrendous aftershave, he smiles and whispers,

‘Say his name, Will. Speak it with intent.’

His gut clenching up in nervous anticipation at the feel of Hannibal moving towards him, Will pushes the wheeled table away from him and settles for watching the other man’s fingers toying with his wedding ring. He feels... guilty. For wearing it, still,  _and_ for abandoning Molly and Walter, and he has to swallow down another hot lump in his throat. He made a choice… He made _his_ choice. He chose Hannibal… So why can’t he let go?

_They deserve better than this. Better than me..._

_Hannibal deserves better._

Giving a shaky sigh, Will distracts himself by tracing the faint scars around Hannibal’s wrists. He’s wary of touching the ridges left by Matthew, but these were made by Mason Verger’s shackles. From their nightmare time at Muskrat Farm.

_You saved my life. You carried me home… And I sent you away._

Guilt flares again, sharper than before. Will focuses on the anger he still harbors towards the long-dead Mason. If only he’d been the one to kill him...

He brings Hannibal’s hand up to his lips again, and breathes in the scent of onions, spices and something uniquely _Hannibal_. Something he hadn’t even known he’d missed until now.

Hannibal is waiting, holding himself between waking and sleep for Will to speak a name. Will sighs, and kisses Hannibal’s skin again, hunger rising like a tide inside him, until he pulses with the same dark energy he felt on the cliff.

_This is what it means to be alive._

He parts his lips, scraping his teeth over the knuckles when he speaks.

‘I want to kill Clark Ingram with you.’


	3. Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the weeks roll by, and Hannibal and Will continue to heal, they begin to address their relationship. What it is, and what it could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps! I hope you enjoy this chapter! I had LOADS of fun writing it, and can't WAIT for what comes next! 
> 
> I spent AGES waiting for them to kiss and then... well, look! Just look!

THREE

_Inferno_

 

‘Take it slowly.’

Hannibal places his hand on the base of Will’s back, his palm hot against his bare flesh, and Will’s heart skips a beat. He takes a shaky breath, leaning into the touch, and allows the other man to steady him, nodding before he pushes himself up onto aching legs.

He wobbles, locking his knees to keep from falling, and huffs a laugh at how _weak_ he feels after so many weeks in bed. His ankles are still swollen, the skin bruised up to his thighs, but Hannibal has removed the casts and, from today, he can begin to hobble around the yacht. His first taste of freedom. Of independence.

 _If_ he can walk, that is.

Hannibal chuckles at Will’s surprise over his frailty, his own eyes glowing with pride to see him standing. He keeps his hand on Will’s back, wrapping his other arm around his chest so that the smaller man can fall against him if he needs to.

‘Are you going to take a step for me?’ he asks, looking into Will’s excited, nervous face, rewarded with another determined nod.

Will reaches for Hannibal’s shoulders, grabbing up fistfuls of his linen shirt the same way he’d held tight to the blood-soaked cashmere sweater. He chews his lower lip, dropping his eyes to his feet as Hannibal takes a step backwards. The distance causes Hannibal’s arms to pull on him, encouraging him forwards, and Will gulps. This is the moment of truth. Neither of them really know how much control he’ll have after fracturing his vertebrae.

Holding his breath, his heart hammering, he resolves to move his leg. There’s a twinge in his spine, sharp enough to make him wince, and then his foot drags along the carpet and he staggers towards the waiting embrace. Hannibal steps back again, forcing Will to keep up, and another twinge moves his left leg in an unmistakable _step_.

Relief robs him of what little strength he has, and Will collapses against Hannibal’s chest, gasping out a sobbing laugh because it worked _._ It _worked_.

He can _walk_.

Hannibal hugs him close, burying his nose in Will’s shaggy curls to suck up the smell of him before he cups each side of his face, smiling down into shining, wet eyes.

‘Well done,’ he says, his heart swelling until he can feel it in his throat. ‘Well _done_.’

He leans in, pressing a firm kiss to Will’s forehead, and Will sinks ever closer, trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion. Hannibal wraps his arms around his waist, stroking up and down the ridges of his spine, and Will releases Hannibal’s shirt to return the hug, burying his nose in the side of his neck, his lips coming to rest on Hannibal’s throbbing pulse.  

‘Thank you,’ he whispers, pressing both hands flat against the raised scar of the old Verger brand, hidden beneath Hannibal’s shirt. He closes his eyes, his belly pulling up at how _close_ they are, at what it could lead to, but before anything happens, Hannibal swallows and steps away. He guides Will down into the armchair by the balcony doors, and Will eases himself into the thick cushions with a grateful moan, tilting his head back in time to catch the color rising in Hannibal’s cheeks.

The other man turns away, busying himself with folding spare bandages and returning the icepack to the dresser. All unnecessary actions designed to buy himself time before he has to face him again. Will gives him his space, his own body thrumming. He imagines lightning crackling between them, the air charged and heavy with everything unspoken.

_What would happen if we said it?_

‘Hannibal…’

At the sound of Will’s voice, hesitant and soft, Hannibal closes his eyes so as not to see his own fingers tremble in response. He braces himself, pushing his emotions down into the dark recesses of his mind before turning back to his friend.

‘Shall I make us some lunch?’ he asks, raking his eyes over Will’s wasted legs and pale torso. After a morning in bed, he is still clad only in pale blue boxers, and the early afternoon sun sets his skin aglow, warming the shades of brown in his hair. Hannibal drinks in the sight of him and the way he rests his hands on the arms of the chair, leaving his body exposed. He can see the smile that he gave him, silver against the cream of his stomach muscles, and the scar from Chiyoh’s bullet sits scant millimeters from the new one created by the Dragon’s blade, mirroring the mark from Jack’s gun on Will’s other side.

_The story of a life, told by the scars left behind._

Watching Hannibal study him, Will feels heat rise in his cheeks again, echoing the fire sinking through his belly to settle as an ache in his balls. He shifts, clearing his throat, and turns his face away to look out at the marina beyond the yacht’s balcony. Nobody has _ever_ watched him the way Hannibal watches him; like he’s a piece of living art. Something to be cherished.

Something special.

‘Yeah,’ he mutters, rubbing his fingertips together. ‘Lunch sounds good.’

He makes sure to keep his gaze averted as Hannibal leaves the room, and only when the door slides shut does he release a slow, quivering breath. Brings both hands up to scrub his face, careful of the cut on his cheek. Hannibal removed the outer stitches yesterday, and it’s still tender.

He steeples his fingers, tapping them against his tingling lips, tracking the excitement zinging through his body.

It’s not from being able to walk.

Sighing to himself, he fiddles with his wedding ring, twisting it round and round his finger. Gives it a tug and the metal band slides free, glinting in the sun.

A breeze ruffles his hair, and Will shivers. Even in the warmth of the Florida winter, he should be wearing more than just underwear.

_God… Hannibal had his hands on my bare skin._

He feels burned where Hannibal touched him.

Marked.

He turns the ring over in his grip, staring without seeing it, his mind drifting back to the snowy fields and frozen lakes he used to call home. To a place where he never let himself be naked; too ashamed of the scars littering his body. Of the truth hidden in the damaged flesh.

To the wife and child he used to call family.

Molly had been so good to him. So kind and patient, as he’d tried to rebuild himself after Hannibal’s incarceration. After he’d sent him away.

She’d found him living in a trailer at the boatyard where he’d been working, having sold his Wolf Trap farmhouse and retired from the FBI. A cramped aluminum box with a single bed, a refrigerator full of beer and seven dogs. It had reeked of loneliness. Of self-pity. She’d taken them all in; her strays, and they’d made a home together. Will had proposed six months later, after one too many whiskeys with dinner, and Molly had said yes.

She’d been just as lonely as him.

Tears burn his eyes, and Will clenches the ring tight in his fist, battered by a maelstrom of emotions. Regret, anger, fear…

_Anticipation._

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rolling his shoulders in a futile attempt the loosen the muscles. Sighs again and practices his physiotherapy exercises, seeking a distraction. Lifts his left leg, rotating his ankle and moving his toes. Stretches out the hamstring and calf muscles, pushing to the point of pain before repeating with the other leg. Again and again, filling the choking silence with huffing gasps and the grinding of clenched teeth as the pain grows sharper, making him sweat.

What if he’d never sent Hannibal away? What if, upon waking after that night at Muskrat Farm, he’d gone with him? Collected his dogs and fled the country?

How different would his life have been?

_How happy could we have been?_

_How many families would the Dragon have killed?_

‘Careful, Will.’

Hannibal’s voice, gently admonishing, makes him jump. Will looks over, frowning when he sees the tray laden with food, wine and glasses of fresh orange juice in the other man’s hands.

Fear and regret, his two strongest drives, make for a potent combination, and Will feels himself baring his teeth in an angry grimace even as he jerks his head at Hannibal’s abdomen.

‘ _You_ be careful,’ he retorts. ‘Chiyoh could have carried that for you.’

‘Chiyoh left this morning,’ Hannibal replies calmly, setting the tray down on the little wheeled table by the door. He pushes it closer, immediately noticing the lack of gold on Will’s finger, and the faint tremors of the other man’s hand. He is fighting, torn between worlds. ‘We’re alone,’ he adds, smiling when he hears Will’s breath catch. ‘Just you and me.’

Will bites his tongue, idly considering ripping it open again, just to have something to say. Something to _do_. Hannibal as a doctor, a caregiver, he can handle.

He’s almost healed. What roles are they going to play now?

‘Would you like to eat outside, Will?’

Hannibal’s question draws his attention again, and Will nods before he can hesitate. Hannibal collects a white t-shirt from one of the many dressers lining the edges of the room, handing it over in silence.

Accepting the soft cotton, Will pulls it over his head, covering himself as Hannibal sets their meal out on the little glass and wicker table on the balcony deck. The other man has taken to sitting out there with his notes and sketchbooks, a cup of coffee or a glass of wine before him as he soaks up the sun, watching over Will as he dozes on the bed after each bout of physiotherapy.

_On our bed._

The ring is a dead weight in his hand. Will swallows, hating the constriction stealing his voice. He can feel his scowl deepening as Hannibal comes to stand before him, ready to help him up, and he lifts his chin to point at the crutches in the corner.

‘Let me help you,’ Hannibal says, his voice still infuriatingly soft, as though he had fully expected this little outburst from Will and is simply waiting for his temper to die down. Will’s jaw works as he tries to think of a suitable response, but his brain fails him and all he can do is huff. He pushes the ring back onto his finger, taking a pathetic, savage glee in the flicker of disappointment in Hannibal’s eyes, before accepting the offered hands.

He can’t quite stifle the gasp as Hannibal’s muscles contract and he is lifted, surprisingly easily, to his feet, steadied as he falters. Hannibal’s face only registers a moment of pain, but Will finds himself rubbing his chest, soothing him.

‘Shouldn’t _do_ that,’ he mutters, dipping his head towards Hannibal’s shoulder as the other man wraps a supportive arm around him. ‘You’re still healing, too.’

‘You worry too much,’ Hannibal teases, echoing the advice he gave Will after the Dragon helped them escape federal custody. ‘Come.’

They shuffle, infuriatingly slowly, out into the fresh air, and Hannibal gives Will a moment to tilt his face up to the sun, watching the way his shoulders fall as the tension melts from him. Their marina is small, and they are nestled at the far end of the dock, offering total privacy. Their balcony is shielded from prying eyes, opening directly onto the ocean view, and Hannibal savors the expression of _peace_ on Will’s face.

 _We should always live near water,_ he thinks, encouraging the other man to his chair.

Hannibal’s hands don’t leave him until he’s safely sitting, and Will offers him a small, reluctant smile at the pure _joy_ on Hannibal’s face. He lives so thoroughly in the moment, enjoying each and every detail that life has to offer. The beauty of the world around him.

Sitting, Hannibal shakes out his napkin and gestures to the plates before them.

‘Local mussels, infused with onion and garlic, with a lemon cream and Chardonnay sauce.’ He reaches for the white wine chilling in a bucket of ice and pours them each a small glass. ‘There is an _excellent_ fish market not far from here. When you’re up to it, we should visit there.’

‘You’re not worried someone will recognize us?’ Will asks, reaching for his wine before the food. Hannibal chooses not to notice, lifting a mussel and teasing out the flesh with his fork. He adds sauce to the meat and then places it in his mouth, allowing the flavors to melt onto his tongue before chewing.

Perfect.

‘People are often so occupied with their own minds, they fail to see what is right in front of them,’ he replies, quirking an eyebrow at Will, who gives him a look of blank reproach before knocking back the painkiller set beside him and draining the rest of his glass, immediately reaching for the bottle. Nerves twist his gut into knots, and his momentary reprieve from the stress makes it that much worse when it returns.

‘Your arrogance got you caught last time,’ Will snaps, speaking over the glug of wine as he pours himself a very generous second helping. ‘Same thing could happen again.’

‘There was an exceedingly large bounty on my head last time,’ Hannibal reminds him, noting the size of Will’s drink with the medication. ‘And I was hardly living a subtle life.’ He leans forward, giving him a conspiratorial smile. ‘I was leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for _you_.’

‘You were reckless,’ Will mutters, gulping the Chardonnay. He sets it down more heavily than he means to, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and then scrapes his fingers through his hair, blowing out his breath. ‘You’ve always been reckless.’

‘Only when it comes to you, Will.’ Hannibal eats another mussel, washing it down with a sip of the crisp, cold drink. ‘You are my Patroclus.’

Will scoffs, and looks off towards the ocean. Sunlight sparkles on the waves, and the vastness of the ocean is simultaneously calming and terrifying. He sees his whole life spreading out before him, but it is dark, and monsters lurk there. He feels blind, again.

‘Why did you write to me?’ he asks, reaching for his glass again. ‘You saw the papers; you knew Jack would come calling. You told me, as a friend, not to step through the door.’

Hannibal sighs, and sets his fork down. He clasps his hands before him and leans closer, giving Will his full attention.

‘I knew what the outcome would be,’ he replies. ‘If you were to return.’

‘To you.’

‘To your old life,’ Hannibal says. ‘To the hunt, and all the wicked pleasures it brings you.’

Will swallows, tracing patterns up and down the stem of the glass. He’d lied _so_ thoroughly, to everyone around him, that he was almost, _almost_ able to convince himself.

He’d never convinced Hannibal, though.

‘You’ve always seen the truth of me, haven’t you?’ he says quietly, looking up from beneath furrowed brows. Hannibal tilts his head, considering him with a tender expression, and nods, just once.

‘I’ve always seen potential in you, Will.’

Gulping more wine, Will feels the edges of his mind start to blur, growing fuzzy as the alcohol numbs his thoughts and quiets his nerves. It’s easier to speak, now, though he still chooses his words carefully. It’s always been a dance with Hannibal; a tightrope walk over a bed of knives. Thrust and parry; attack and evade.

Time for a thrust.

‘How long have you been in love with me?’

By Hannibal’s silence, Will can tell that his words have cut deep. The other man eats more of his meal as he contemplates his answer, his hands surprisingly steady as he lifts up another mussel to free the flesh from inside.

‘I’ve always felt a powerful attraction to you.’ Hannibal dabs his lips with his napkin and then places it to the side. He wants to focus on this, entirely. ‘At first, I believed it was simply your empathy that intrigued me. Your ability to think like me.’

‘Like a killer,’ Will says, and Hannibal concedes the point with a half-shrug.

‘You were, and remain, fascinating,’ he replies. ‘But, as we became closer, as we became friends, my affection for you grew beyond anything I expected to feel. It surpassed the compassion I felt for anyone else… For anyone since…’ He sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

‘Since Mischa,’ Will murmurs, and he sees the way Hannibal’s throat catches at the name. The other man swallows, squinting against the sun as he studies the horizon for a long moment.

‘What I feel for you is something different,’ he says softly. ‘I was mistaken in thinking I needed to eat you.’

‘What _do_ you need to do?’ Will asks, finding it easier to speak now that Hannibal is averting his gaze. He fiddles with his cutlery, his knee twitching with the old urge to bounce as fresh anticipation zings through his body.

Hannibal huffs a laugh and locks eyes with him again, freezing Will in place.

‘I just need to be with you, Will.’

Silence descends between them, growing thicker and yet more brittle with every passing second. Will swallows, his heartbeat loud in his ears, wishing he could move, could reach for his wine and down the rest of it until he stops _feeling_.

Hannibal is the first to sigh, and, to Will’s horror, the light dims from his eyes as he settles back and breaks the spell between them.

_Why do I keep rejecting him?_

‘I only want the best for you,’ Hannibal says, speaking briskly even as he finds comfort in another taste of wine. ‘I expect nothing from you; only your company. You may choose how much, or how little, of yourself you wish to give.’

Dragging his gaze away from Hannibal’s sun-kissed hair and sharp cheeks, Will glares into their bedroom, at the stupid _neatness_ of it all. The perfect symmetry and the goddamn fucking _throw_ pillows that Hannibal arranges every single fucking morning.

‘I miss my dogs,’ he whispers, a wave of homesickness crashing into him so powerfully that it _hurts_. He doesn’t miss the timber house, doesn’t miss Molly and Walter… He misses Wolf Trap. He misses his old _life_.

‘How many do you have now?’ Hannibal asks, tilting his head to better see the pain on Will’s face, the wretched agony carved into each line around his tear-stained eyes and tight-pressed lips. His suffering is exquisite, as always.

‘Nine,’ Will mutters, returning his attention to the plate of mussels growing cold in front of him. Hannibal had taken time and effort to arrange them so beautifully, and he hasn’t even tried _one_ …

_What the fuck am I doing?_

‘I expected more,’ Hannibal chuckles, and his teasing has the desired effect. Will sniffs and manages a crooked smile, looking up again with eyes green against the bloodshot sclera.

‘Molly’s better at giving them away,’ he says, picking up his fork and eating his first mouthful. He groans softly, his stomach growling with hunger as his mouth waters at the taste. ‘This is really good.’

Hannibal smiles, accepting the compliment, and they eat quietly for a while. Will doesn’t reach for his wine until the end of his meal, and he limits himself to two large gulps that still leave a bit of Chardonnay waiting as a safety net in the base of the glass.

‘It’s what I asked Bedelia,’ he confesses, propping his chin up on his hands with his elbows on the table. He sees Hannibal pause, casting his mind back to their previous conversation about Dr Du Maurier, and the moment of recognition.

‘When did you know?’ Hannibal murmurs, mirroring Will’s position across the table from him.

‘Before I broke you out of the hospital,’ Will says, forcing himself to hold the gaze. ‘Before the, er, “mic-drop”.’

Hannibal smiles, humming softly. He nods, tapping his upper lip with steepled fingers.

‘And how did it make you feel?’

Nerves crawl through Will’s veins, locking him in place. The fine hairs rise on the back of his neck and his cock twitches expectantly even as his balls ache, but he still remembers the _shock_ , the disgust at himself for not being repulsed by the truth…

How did it make him feel? To have a serial killer, a _cannibal_ , someone who had tried to kill and _eat_ him, in love with him…?

Grabbing his wine, Will drains the last of his safety net and pushes back from the table.

‘Like I needed a drink,’ he snaps. ‘Like I _still_ need a drink.’

He fumbles to push himself to his feet, but, of course, he can’t, and Hannibal hurries around to help him, wrapping an infuriatingly _nice_ arm around his waist and holding him up as his overworked leg muscles buckle under his weight.

‘Easy, Will.’

‘Fuck you, Hannibal,’ Will growls, shoving at him even as the taller man half-carries him back into the bedroom. His ends up resting his head against Hannibal’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes tight shut as his vision wavers, and then falls into the softness of the mattress, scowling up at the other man. 

‘Rest,’ Hannibal says, pulling the comforter up to his waist and stroking an errant curl back from Will’s forehead. ‘You’re still very weak.’

‘Yeah? Maybe you should keep me like this,’ Will grumbles, even as he reaches for Hannibal’s hand to lace their fingers together, already ashamed of his outburst. ‘Play _doctor._ ’

‘No.’ Hannibal smiles, and brings his hand up to kiss his knuckles. ‘I want you to be as strong as the night we fought the Dragon.’

Will’s throat catches, and he tightens his grip.

‘You want to watch me kill again.’

It’s not a question, but Hannibal nods, his eyes glinting red. He perches on the edge of the bed, bringing Will’s hand to press flat his chest.

‘I would see you victorious.’

Will trembles, caught in the _intensity_ of Hannibal’s gaze. The intoxicating promise of his words… 

‘I want that, too,’ he whispers, feeling Hannibal’s heart jump beneath his palm. The thud echoes through his arm, spreading like wildfire until his body burns, and he finds his lungs too small to breathe.

He’s _always_ ached for Hannibal.

‘I feel…’ Will pauses, his throat tight. ‘God, I don’t know… _Conflicted_. You’re like a storm; you stir up things in me I never knew were there. You’re _dangerous_ , Hannibal. You scare me. Still.’ He huffs. ‘ _Especially_ now.’

Hannibal dips lower, resting his own hand flat between Will’s pectorals, careful not to press too hard as the other man’s heart flutters beneath the skin.

‘Do you want to be _safe_ , Will?’

‘I’ve never been safe,’ Will replies. He frowns, drowning in the maroon of Hannibal’s eyes, tightening his hand into a fist around Hannibal’s shirt. ‘I don’t know what this _is_. What I feel for you… It’s not as simple as friendship or, or even _sex_ … It’s…’

‘Unique,’ Hannibal purrs, smiling down at him. ‘Do we have to comply with the boundaries of a conventional relationship?’ His smile widens further when Will shakes his head, and he moves his hand from Will’s chest to stroke his jaw. ‘Your body is not what matters to me, Will. Your appeal is here, in this extraordinary mind of yours.’

‘But it helps if you like the packaging,’ Will mumbles, smoothing the wrinkles from the shirt and following the motion with more strokes across Hannibal’s flat, hard chest.

_So different to Molly’s…_

‘You’re a very attractive man,’ Hannibal says, plainly enough that Will can choose to ignore the compliment. ‘And, ultimately…’ He grins, the quick flash of teeth sending a thrill of fear down Will’s spine. ‘It’s all just flesh to me.’

‘Isn’t it odd for you, to find yourself attracted to the pigs and cows of this world?’ Will asks, tilting his head into the touch. He sees Hannibal’s smile grow, and he basks in the smoldering heat of the other man’s stare.

‘You are the first to appeal to me in such a way,’ Hannibal says, drawing a confused frown from Will.

‘What about Alana?’ he says, his grip tightening on the shirt again at her name. Hannibal glances down and removes his hand from Will’s face to cover his knuckles so that he can play with his fingers whilst sitting up to ease the pressure on his abdomen.

‘She was a convenient alibi,’ he replies, chuckling at the flash of outrage in Will’s blue eyes. ‘I kept her blind to the truth, even as I shed my mask for you.’

‘You knew I wanted her,’ Will says, wondering why he’s bringing up their past; poking at scars. If he’s going to reopen old wounds…

‘That was part of the appeal,’ Hannibal admits, ducking his head to kiss the ball of Will’s thumb, soothing the sting of his words with burning lips. ‘I wanted to see what you would do. How you would exact your revenge on me.’

‘Always curious.’ It doesn’t upset him like it used to; now, Will has an odd feeling. Irritation tempered by affection. ‘You’re going to _keep_ testing me, aren’t you?’

‘We cannot defy our natures,’ Hannibal says, his nose still brushing across Will’s skin. ‘Do you not wish to explore your own urges?’

‘Hmm…’ Will pulls away, huffing a nervous laugh, and runs his tingling hand through his hair. He shifts, trying to sit upright, and Hannibal adjusts, allowing him to reposition. ‘What did you have in mind?’

Hannibal’s grin, simultaneously wicked and full of childlike delight, is like a physical kick in the gut, and Will finds himself swallowing hard, his stomach coiled tight with excitement, which grows ever stronger when Hannibal speaks.

‘I thought we might take a little detour on our way to Cuba… Perhaps visit Louisiana – you can introduce me to some of the sights – and then sail down the coast to Galveston, Texas...’

‘Hardly a “little detour”,’ Will says, narrowing his eyes. ‘What’s in Galveston, Texas?’ He leans forward, recapturing Hannibal’s hand in his own. ‘Besides an old pier and a rollercoaster, which I can’t imagine you on…’

Hannibal laughs again and shifts his weight, bending his knee to balance more securely on the bed. Will lifts his own knee, spreading his legs so that Hannibal can sit between them, closing the distance, and chews his lower lip as he watches Hannibal’s pupils expand and retract in concentration.

‘I have it on good authority that we have a mutual friend in Texas,’ Hannibal says. ‘Someone who, as I recall, you are interested in seeing again.’

Will sucks in an audible breath, his heart skipping a beat.

‘Ingram,’ he whispers, shuffling even nearer, fire licking his insides even as darkness swarms his mind. ‘You found him for me.’

‘For us,’ Hannibal corrects, and he brings Will’s hand up to his own cheek, encouraging him to hold his jaw the way he holds the other man’s. Will’s thumb rasps up his shaved skin, tracing the jutting edge of his cheekbone, the old scar left by Jack’s attack in Florence, and the creases around his eyes, and Hannibal’s throat tightens with longing, even as he satisfies himself with the level of affection given by Will. ‘If we kill him, we kill him together.’

‘We’re killing him,’ Will says, nodding quickly. He slides his fingers through Hannibal’s hair and the _softness_ of it, the knowledge that he’s finally, _finally_ giving in to what he wants, sends a jolt of fresh lightning through his muscles. There’s a moment, a _second_ where time stops, and then Will yanks Hannibal towards him, smashing their mouths together in a brutal, messy kiss.

 _Yes_.

His whole body comes alive, like the strike of a match, and he huffs out a desperate sound, feeling the same sweet relief as earlier, when Hannibal helped him to walk. He clings to the other man, drowning in the taste and smell of him. _Hannibal’s_ lips. _Hannibal’s_ spit. The sharp hint of wine and the soft tang of cream on his breath as Hannibal draws in a ragged gasp, right before Will captures his tongue between his teeth and sucks it down.

He wants to _consume_ him, utterly. Is this how Hannibal has felt, all this time?

Hannibal groans, cradling Will’s face between burning palms and tangling his fingers in his curls to hold him close. His pulse races and he feels dizzy, his mouth dry as Will swallows his saliva like a man dying of thirst. He can barely breathe, terrified that, if he moves, he’ll ruin whatever this is between them, but desperate to pull Will against his body and rip through the layers of clothing and flesh between them, to be so thoroughly entwined that nothing can separate them again.

Will shudders, his mind skating towards panic even as his desire climbs. Hannibal tastes so good; he _feels_ so good, and it’s like a hurricane inside him, battering away his resistance. But he’s scared, and the fear is making it hard to breathe, and his chest is getting tighter and tighter. He can’t stop; he can’t let go. If he pulls back, if he sees Hannibal, sees what he’s done…

‘Will…’

Tasting the other man’s fear, Hannibal clamps down on his own inferno and eases them apart, resting their foreheads together as they catch their breath. Their chests heave in unison and Hannibal can hear both of their hearts, battering the insides of their ribs. Despite Will’s anxiety, he can _see_ the evidence of his arousal in the rucked-up bedding between their legs, and his previously dry mouth waters at the idea of _tasting_ it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Will manages, unable to stop touching him, hypnotized by the way Hannibal’s straight blond hair slips through his fingers like water. ‘I… I shouldn’t have done that.’

‘I’m not complaining,’ Hannibal whispers, managing a weak chuckle at the blush darkening Will’s cheeks. He gives his neck a squeeze, expecting to find muscles stiff with tension, surprised when Will relaxes into the petting.

‘I’m not… I don’t want you to think…’ Will sighs, draping his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders and hugging him tight, chest to chest with the comforter bunched between their hips, resting his forehead on Hannibal’s collarbone. ‘I have no idea what I’m doing.’

‘You seem perfectly in control to me.’ Hannibal returns the embrace, taking the risk and brushing his lips across Will’s cheek and jaw. At the quiet moan, he smiles. Will likes it. ‘Have you always been this nervous when showing affection?’

‘ _Don’t_ psychoanalyze me,’ Will mutters, turning his head to nip at Hannibal’s lower lip. Hannibal moves quickly, capturing his own lip between dangerous teeth, holding him in place as he flicks the tip of his tongue back and forth over Will’s tender flesh. The touch is so sudden and so shockingly _intimate_ that Will’s hips buck without him meaning to, and he grabs for Hannibal again, almost shoving himself at him with the need to be closer.

Hannibal captures his mouth in another kiss, soft and deep this time, and he slides his tongue over Will’s to taste every _inch_ of him, mimicking the very thing he wants to do to every other part of his body. He feels Will’s shaking resume, but the hands holding his hair and shirt are clenching rhythmically now, drawing him in; a silent plea not to stop, and he takes control of the situation, gripping Will’s jaw tight and winding a fist in his hair to tilt his head back so that he can rasp his tongue over the creamy, unblemished skin of Will’s throat.

Will is on fire; Hannibal’s touch is melting his bones, wracking him with tremors. He holds on tight because it’s the only thing keeping him from breaking apart, desperate to kick the covers from between them but nowhere _near_ brave enough to try that. What if it ruins everything? What if the truth of what he’s doing – kissing a _man_ , kissing _Hannibal_ – turns him away from him?

_I don’t want to hurt him again._

A strangled moan sticks in his throat and Will claws at the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, whining when a hand comes up to stop him.

‘Hannibal…’

‘Kiss me,’ Hannibal growls, using the grip on the back of his head to pull him back in. Will obeys, closing his eyes and concentrating on the feel of hard, broad pectorals under his palms, of rough linen and, when he gets a hand between two buttons, blisteringly hot skin and coarse hair.

The chest hair is a harsh reminder that this is _Hannibal_ , but Will doesn’t have time to do more than hesitate before Hannibal’s _teeth_ are in his throat and biting down hard enough to sting. Will’s eyes fly open and he has a sudden image of Dolarhyde’s death; the way Hannibal tore into him, savage and powerful, as Will gutted him, letting the blood flow…

Taking another risk, Hannibal slides his right hand down Will’s heaving body to push away the covers and stroke his erection, even as he suckles at the ring of bloody teeth marks in his neck. After years of solitude and weeks of tantalizingly chaste touches with Will after their fall, to have the freedom to reach out and grasp what he wants, to feel the wet spot on Will’s boxers and smell the thick, smoky musk of his desire rise between them…

Hannibal swallows, feeling a lump in his own throat as he releases the bruised flesh of Will’s jugular to gaze into wide, glassy blue eyes.

He wants to see this. Wants to watch Will come.

_Fuck… Oh, fuck…_

Will stares at Hannibal, one hand half-inside his shirt, right over Hannibal’s thundering heart, the other in his hair, his hips rocking up into the broad palm and clever fingers working him through his underwear. He feels like an idiot teenager again, stupidly hard just from a _kiss_ , but it’s been weeks since he fucked Molly and Hannibal just has this way of making everything more intense…

‘Do you remember what I said to you, when you found me before the Botticelli?’ Hannibal whispers, pushing at the elastic waistband riding low on Will’s hips. His own hardness is a welcome reminder of his own potency, and he savors the way he _aches_ in response to the sight of Will’s length, freed from inside the thin cotton. Will’s scent is stronger now; tangy and rich, and Hannibal’s fingers tremble when he traces _so_ gently over the sensitive tip of the quivering hardness, gathering up the slippery fluid beading on the flushed skin. Sliding his hand down the swollen flesh, he watches the way Will bares his teeth, _just_ like he had when Hannibal cut into him.

He’d always known it would be the same.

Pleasure coils within Will like a spring, winding up and _up_ with every fluttering and firm stroke of Hannibal’s hand. It’s never the same, and each change adds a zing to the waves crashing through him. Will wonders if his grip on Hannibal’s hair is hurting him; if it does, the other man gives no indication. Maybe he likes it.

He shudders, no longer caring that he must look like a fucking idiot with his boxers shoved down and cock exposed, being jerked off by someone he _just_ said he wasn’t sure he wanted to have sex with.

‘Tell me what I said to you, Will.’

Hannibal’s voice, coupled with a sharp tug on his curls, drags a harsh grunt from Will’s red lips. He closes his eyes, seeking sanctuary from the gaze flaying him alive, and tries to answer.

‘You… you told me… _fuck_ … You said… if you saw me, everyday… You… you’d remember that time.’

‘Forever, Will,’ Hannibal murmurs, tapping his thumb over the slit and then abandoning the curving length to tug on Will’s tightening balls. ‘Look at me.’

His eyes fly open again at the command, and Will parts his lips to welcome Hannibal’s conquering tongue, surrendering himself to the sensations wrung from his body. He’s so very, _very_ close; if Hannibal tried to stop now, he’d probably kill him.

Hannibal draws back with a lazy, predatory smile, his eyes gleaming. He moves his hand faster, now, and slides his other palm around to cover Will’s windpipe, pressing _just_ hard enough to choke him as he sheds the mask to show the monster dwelling beneath.

‘Come for me, Will.’

White heat smashes through him at the order. Will screws his eyes tight shut as a kaleidoscope of colors explode across his eyelids. He can feel his belly pulling in, his thighs and ass clenching up and _up_ as he thrusts into Hannibal’s hand…

He comes hard, gasping at how _right_ it feels to shoot his load over his t-shirt, the bed and the other man, barely able to breathe because of the pressure on his windpipe, dizzy from the tension locking every muscle in place.

God… It’s… _Fuck_ …

He can’t think. He can’t do anything but _exist_. Can’t do anything but _feel_ as heat washes back and forth inside him, like waves lapping at the sand of a beach.

He’s _home_.

Gazing at the expression of bliss on Will’s face, Hannibal feels a tear trickle down his cheek. He wants to commit every detail to memory. The way Will’s blush has spread down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his top… The sheen of sweat on his forehead and the spit glistening on swollen lips…    

He looks wrecked, and completely, utterly _perfect_.

Releasing the pressure on his throat, Hannibal strokes the bitemark as Will takes a deep, rasping breath. Then he pulls him close, heedless of the smaller man’s sticky skin and the mess between them, and nuzzles his temple.

‘I’ll always remember _this_ ,’ he says, kissing his hairline. ‘This moment; forever, Will.’

Will falls against him, panting hard, caught between the urge to laugh or, to his horror, _cry_. He’s _missed_ Hannibal so much; three years has felt like thirty, and he’d been so, _so_ close to getting everything he’d wanted, before.

He’d been too scared, then. Too conflicted.

_I’m not gonna make the same mistake again._

‘Let me touch you,’ he whispers, pressing his words into Hannibal’s cheek, slipping his right hand down between them without waiting for permission. At the feel of Hannibal’s erection, so hard it _has_ to be painful, Will’s heart stumbles and then begins to beat double-time. His lungs shrink and all he can think about is making Hannibal feel as good as him.

‘You don’t have to –’

Will silences Hannibal’s protest with another searing kiss, taking advantage of the other man’s surprise to slide his left hand down and undo the button of his slacks. The sound of the zipper is deafening in the breath-damp air between them, and Will doesn’t try to hide his shiver, even as he kisses Hannibal more thoroughly, blindly fumbling to release Hannibal’s raging hard-on from his pants and briefs. He licks inside the other man’s mouth, coaxing his tongue out to catch it between his teeth, and brushes the tip of his own over it in a weak imitation of something he imagines Hannibal would _really_ appreciate.

By the sudden iron-grip on his biceps, Will _knows_ that Hannibal’s mind has jumped straight to the same scenario, and excitement surges within him at the realization that he can wind the other man up so much. He grins, releasing Hannibal’s tongue with a soft pop, and takes a deep breath, steeling himself as he looks down.

‘Oh, _fuck_ …’

Hannibal trembles, his attention shrinking to the feel of cool air on his sensitive flesh fighting with heat radiating from Will’s hand, scant millimeters from touching him. He holds his breath, his pulse racing, forcing himself to hold tight to Will’s shoulders so as not to influence him. He can feel his abdominal muscles aching, overworked from being tense for so long, but he has no intention of moving. If Will merely wants to _look_ , without touching, for seconds or minutes or hours, he may.

‘God, Hannibal, you’re… _Fuck_. You’re so –’ Will glances up at him, worrying at his lower lip again. When he sees the tightness of the other man’s jaw and the set of his shoulders, he frowns. Hannibal’s discomfort is as obvious to him as his own aches. ‘Lie down,’ he says, pushing at his chest.

Hannibal complies, lying back across the bed and gazing at Will as he curls up beside him. Will’s gut squirms with embarrassment at the way he’s _cuddling_ up to Hannibal, but he makes no effort to move his head from the mound of the other man’s shoulder, humming his satisfaction when Hannibal drapes an arm around him to hold him close.

‘Tell me what you like,’ Will murmurs, running his hand back down Hannibal’s stomach, ghosting past the gunshot wound that he _still_ hasn’t seen, and then wrapping around the throbbing hard cock waiting for his attention.

Hannibal’s breath catches and he groans, his eyes sliding shut at the tentative touch. Will’s palms are rougher than his; calloused and scarred from manual labor. It adds a fascinating amount of friction to the stroking, and Hannibal hums his approval as he feels Will move up and down his length in what is presumably the same way he touches himself. That thought alone makes him hiss, and pleasure crackles through his central nervous system, flooding his brain with dopamine.

‘Hannibal, talk to me,’ Will whispers, nibbling along the edge of Hannibal’s jaw before licking up the side of his throat. ‘What do you like?’

‘I like this,’ Hannibal confirms, and he reaches across with his free hand to stroke Will’s hair. He adores these curls; soft and dense, smelling of _their_ shampoo now that they share a bathroom, of the salty air surrounding their home, and, of course, of _Will._ ‘I like anything. I like you touching me.’

Will growls under his breath, rolling closer to kiss him again, even as he tightens his grip and rubs rough circles with his thumb over the sensitive tip of Hannibal’s cock.

‘Yeah? You like _this?_ ’ He changes again, skittering his fingertips up and down the silky skin, tickling Hannibal’s balls. ‘And this?’ He glares at him, returning to long, steady strokes. ‘You have to _tell_ me, Hannibal. I don’t know what I’m _doing_. I wanna make you feel good.’

‘You do,’ Hannibal replies, infuriatingly calm. Will’s heart races so fast it might beat its way from his chest, but it’s not only from arousal, now. Fear leeches his excitement and replaces fire with ice. He stills, staring down into Hannibal’s dark, inscrutable eyes, and he feels sick.

‘Do you… do you even _like_ sex?’ he asks, immediately wishing he hadn’t asked because if the answer’s “no”, then this isn’t going to work, and he can’t, he _can’t_ go back… ‘Hannibal…’

‘I like _that_ ,’ Hannibal breathes, his gaze sharpening at the distress on Will’s face, a sharp ache making him twitch up into Will’s hand. He tightens his fist in Will’s hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, and his eyes glitter as Will begins to rub him again.

‘You like seeing me in pain,’ Will whispers, wondering why he hadn’t assumed that before. ‘You’re… you’re a sadist… Of course.’

‘I’ll take whatever you’re happy to give me,’ Hannibal says, though he doesn’t relax his grip. Will is trembling again, but Hannibal can see the darkness of his expanded pupils, and the faint blush of arousal in his cheeks. Despite his nerves, Will is enjoying it, and he lowers his voice as he purrs, ‘Are you going to let me hurt you, Will?’

_Fuck…_

Will’s mouth goes very dry and his own cock twitches, as if he could get hard again at the very _idea_ of Hannibal hurting him. Before he can scare himself off the idea, he nods, wincing as the movement jerks on his scalp, and, to his delight, he feels Hannibal’s cock jump again. He shifts his weight, careful of his spine, and guides Hannibal’s hand from around his waist to his throat, instead.

The offering before him, the _trust_ Will is showing him, makes Hannibal’s body tighten in a sudden rush of anticipation. He grips him tight, choking him, and rocks up into the faster, tighter strokes. Pressure builds, the familiar need for release, but it is far more intense than anything he’s felt before, and he finds himself breathing hard, chanting Will’s name in his mind as pleasure races towards its climax.

Will’s heart skips a beat at the _hunger_ on Hannibal’s face, and he alternates sharp rubs with squeezing his balls, smearing slippery pre-cum across his palm and playing with the tip of his cock, even as grey spots dance in front of his eyes. He groans, pulling against the hold on his hair and applying more pressure to his throat until a tiny, high-pitched whimper of fear slips free, because he _knows_ Hannibal is waiting for it.  

The _moment_ he hears that sound, hears Will’s breath falter, rasping through teeth bared in a rictus of pain, Hannibal loses himself to his orgasm. It tears through him, stealing the air from his own chest and ripping him apart at the seams. His back arches from the bed, his ears ringing as black and red streaks his vision, and he snarls Will’s name before yanking him down for a bruising kiss, thrusting up into his hand and coating their stomachs with his release, over and over and over as fire consumes him.

‘Fuck, _Will_ … Fuck…’

Shaking like a leaf, tingling at the sound of _Hannibal_ swearing, Will falls against his heaving chest, meeting him kiss for kiss as the other man devours his mouth. Even though his lungs burn and his throat aches, he’s so calm, so satisfied, it’s like the storm has passed and he can finally, _finally_ breathe again. He can feel Hannibal’s cock softening, but he doesn’t want to let go of it, and he keeps stroking even as Hannibal judders underneath him.

Battered by his emotions he knows only in theory, Hannibal lets his tears flow freely, caressing Will’s hair and massaging his abused scalp. He wraps his arms tight around him, hugging him close, and buries his face into the crook of Will’s neck, laughing softly because _this_ must be why everyone is so preoccupied with sex.

 _This_ might even be as good as killing.

‘I love you,’ he whispers, kissing Will’s cheek, his chin and jugular. ‘My beautiful, clever boy.’

Will hums, tilting his head back to bare his bruised throat to Hannibal, desire licking at his insides at the idea of submitting to the other man. He doesn’t say anything; just settles down in the crook of Hannibal’s shoulder once more, tangling their legs together and cupping Hannibal’s balls as the other man stretches out, ready to sleep.

Exhaustion tugs at his own consciousness, all the stronger for the cocktail of painkillers and alcohol with lunch, but Will forces his grainy eyes to stay open. He frowns, worrying at his swollen lips, wincing every time he swallows.  

He’s done it… He’s turned this into something sexual with Hannibal…

And Hannibal is a fucking sadist…

A broad hand presses flat to the side of his head and Hannibal’s lips brush across his forehead, silencing the whirlwind of anxious thoughts. Will glances up, seeing Hannibal smile down at him, and, somehow, it makes him feel… okay…

Huffing to himself, Will snuggles even closer and lets his eyes slide shut.

‘Fuck you, Hannibal,’ he mumbles, smiling into the other man’s armpit. ‘Fucking sadist.’


	4. Cantos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal deal with their emotional responses to their earlier intimacy, and Will makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps... So this story is taking FOREVER to write, mainly because I think I'm trying too hard to get their dialogue spot on, which is ridiculous and never going to actually happen anyway...
> 
> I'm hoping it'll speed up now that I've decided to go easy on myself with it. I've also been majorly focussed on The Reckoning, and fallen down the fanfic hole of reading other peoples' amazing works as well. So many stories, so little time!!!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Sorry it's not very long; I want to move the story along soon and get to the killing part, so that should increase the word count... I hope! 
> 
> Comments are, as always, welcomed and appreciated. Thanks for reading, you lovely people! xxx

Waking that evening, Hannibal has a moment of panic, quickly suppressed, when he finds himself alone on the bed. The temperature has dropped, and his flesh pebbles as a cold breeze flutters the net curtains at the balcony doors. He frowns, holding his abdomen as he sits up, looking around at the empty bedroom but finding no sign of his companion.

_Where is he? Where’s Will?_

Standing makes his core muscles ache, reminding him of how tense he’d been during his orgasm, and, despite his worry, Hannibal feels his lips curve into a small grin. He tucks himself away and zips up his slacks, pausing midway through straightening out his rumpled linen shirt when his fingers brush the dried evidence of Will’s pleasure.

_It wasn’t a dream, then…_

Faint jazz music and the clatter of pots and pans drift down from the upper deck of the yacht, and Hannibal frowns, his curiosity piqued. He pads, barefoot, to the bedroom door and slips into the hallway, his mouth watering as he follows the tantalizing scent of cooking tomatoes, spices and fish.

The music gets louder as he navigates the stairs, though it remains tinny as he tracks the source to an old radio hanging from one of the hooks by the wall clock. Pausing to lean against the doorframe, Hannibal watches, unnoticed, as Will shuffles around the small kitchen, occasionally swaying to the music and wincing whenever he overworks his back and legs, leaning heavily against the counters as he cooks. He has pulled on faded blue jeans, though that is the same thin t-shirt from before, and he, like Hannibal, remains barefoot.

The visual effect is one of a contently casual young man, and Hannibal’s throat tightens around an uncomfortable lump.

Slicing a red bell pepper into narrow strips, Will crunches one piece before scooping up the rest to add to the pot of stew bubbling on the stove. As he turns, he spots movement from the corner of his eye, and he glances up, jumping out of his skin when he sees Hannibal lounging in the doorway, arms crossed and one leg bent, an oddly tender expression on his face.

‘ _Jesus_ , Hannibal!’ He presses a hand to his racing heart, skin tingling wherever the other man’s dark eyes touch him. ‘How long have you been hiding there?’

‘Do you always eat when you cook?’ Hannibal asks, smirking when Will extends his middle finger in a juvenile response. He heads to the breakfast table and eases himself down onto the cream leather bench seat beneath the window, dark eyes still fixed on his companion.

Will turns, keeping Hannibal in his line of sight, his cheeks flushing red when he realizes that Hannibal hasn’t bothered to change his clothes. He scrubs the back of his head, messing up his curls even more than they already were, and lowers the gas on the stove so he can join Hannibal at the table.

‘Want a drink?’ he asks, lifting his own bottle of beer. Hannibal narrows his eyes at Will’s alcohol intake, but he decides not to say anything for the moment.

‘Water?’

Will snorts and rolls his eyes, but he fetches a glass and bottle of sparkling water for him before sinking onto the far end of the bench with his beer.

‘What are you making?’ Hannibal asks, unscrewing the lid and pouring half the bottle into his tumbler. ‘It smells wonderful.’

‘Just a stew,’ Will mutters, shrugging and picking at the label on his bottle. ‘Nothing fancy.’

Hannibal considers him; the tightness of his jaw and defensive set to his shoulders. The lowered eyes and faint blush lingering on his throat.

Will is embarrassed. It is most likely a combination of their previous sexual acts, falling asleep together and, perhaps, an expectation of judgment from Hannibal for his rustic cooking.

Hannibal takes an unhurried sip of water before gesturing to the radio.

‘How did you get it to work? Chiyoh dropped it her first night here and it broke.’

Will glances over, frowning in confusion, and then shrugs when he realizes what Hannibal is talking about.

‘Just needed the dial pointer realigning,’ he says. At the other man’s blank look, he chuckles. ‘My er, my dad had one like it… on our boat. He used to drop it all the time, too.’ Another shrug. ‘I hope you don’t mind the music. It was too quiet.’

‘Not at all.’ Hannibal sets his glass aside and clasps his hands on the table. ‘I want you to feel at home here, Will.’

Will hums, but he looks away; up at the ceiling, the windows, _anywhere_ but the other man, and jumps again when Hannibal places a hand on top of his, staring at him with something akin to fear in his wide blue eyes, almost shrinking back from the scrutiny but trying not to.

‘Hannibal…’

‘I understand if you don’t want to talk about earlier,’ Hannibal murmurs, reading his hesitation. ‘If you want to pretend it never happened, we can; though I’d rather you didn’t.’ He tilts his head, offering him a crooked smile. ‘I have no plans to change the way things are between us, Will. You’re my friend; I value that friendship too much to risk it for something as trivial as sexual gratification.’

‘Trivial…?’ Will huffs a laugh, and his arm twitches as though he’s fighting the urge to pull away. In the end, he decides to turn his hand and forces himself to lace his fingers with Hannibal – forces himself to sit there, blushing, as he enjoys the comfort it brings him. ‘Only _you_ , Hannibal, would consider _sex_ to be trivial.’

‘Compared to killing, it is.’

Hannibal’s swift, dark smile makes Will’s gut tighten, and the scar across his abdomen prickles. He takes a slow, steadying breath, and swallows before nodding.

‘Okay, well… I… don’t know how I feel about earlier,’ he admits, ducking his head. Sniffs a quiet laugh and shakes his head again. ‘I don’t even know for sure how I feel about _you_ , let alone…’ He shrugs, gesturing to their linked hands. ‘ _This_.’

‘Companionship can mean many different things, to many people,’ Hannibal replies, indulging his desire to trace patterns across Will’s palm. ‘Does it need to be defined to feel good?’

‘… No.’ Will sighs again, relaxing a fraction. He offers Hannibal a tiny smile, barely more than a twist of his lips, but his eyes sparkle. ‘There are times when, I think I have all these thoughts that I want to share with you; despite the danger, I want to let you inside my head, but then I _get_ with you and…’ He chuckles. ‘Half the time I’m content to just _sit_ , and _not_ think for a while.’

‘I’m honored that you want to share yourself with me.’ Hannibal releases his hand to drink more water. ‘And, I can assure you; you are in no danger from me, now.’

‘You’re just a danger to everyone else,’ Will mutters, rolling his eyes.

Hannibal remains silent for a moment; Will once said that he prefers omissions to outright lies, and he has not been asked a direct question. He strokes a fingertip around the rim of his glass, gaze distant, and then looks up at him.

‘How would you feel?’ he murmurs. ‘If I were to kill someone you deem innocent?’

Will opens his mouth to answer, but the weight of the question stops him. Neither have said it, but this is a suddenly crucial moment; one that will, undoubtedly, define how their relationship proceeds.

He sits back and takes a contemplative sip of beer, holding the bitter liquid in his mouth for a moment before swallowing.

Hannibal eats those he considers to be rude. Unworthy of living. But rude doesn’t necessarily constitute _bad_ ; a short-tempered doctor or self-entitled parking officer is _not_ the same as a murderer or rapist…

Scrubbing his cheeks, Will blows out his breath and tries to roll the sudden tightness from his shoulders.

‘I’m… not sure,’ he says. ‘I know I made my choice, but…’ He shakes his head, clasping his hands before his face and resting his chin on them. ‘I’m not the same as you, Hannibal. I don’t enjoy cruelty for the sake of it.’

‘But you do enjoy it,’ Hannibal presses, his dark eyes gleaming with a strange, dangerous light. Will’s heart skips a beat at the sight of it; he remembers it all too well. It’s the way Hannibal looks when he’s hunting.

_It’s hot as hell._

‘I enjoy hurting bad people,’ Will confesses, unable to drag his gaze away, the words flowing from him like water. There’s no longer any hesitation; any shame. ‘I liked it when I thought I’d hurt you. When I shot Hobbs… When I stabbed the Dragon…’

_The quiet sense of power._

‘You want to hurt Clark Ingram,’ Hannibal says, leaning closer. ‘You want _me_ to hurt him with you.’

‘Yes,’ Will whispers, shifting in his seat, knuckles white where he’s gripping the bottle. He exhales, breaking the spell, and sits back. ‘But that’s _not_ the same as killing someone because they pissed you off, Hannibal.’

‘I understand your hesitation.’ Hannibal smiles in response to the raised eyebrows at his choice of words. ‘Would it make you feel better if I promised to only hunt those who posed a danger to civilized society?’

‘As long as you don’t interpret that as an excuse to kill someone for playing music too loud or chewing with their mouth open,’ Will replies, grinning at him.

Hannibal blinks, momentarily taken aback by the lighter tone. Will has just agreed to him hunting people, _killing_ and eating them, whilst making a joke about it.

His heart skips a beat and he beams, feeling lighter than he has in years.

‘You have my word,’ he says, shifting closer.

Will rolls his eyes again, but he doesn’t move away from Hannibal. In fact, when he feels the other man’s bare foot nudge his, he makes a point of nudging him back, tilting his head so that Hannibal knows it’s not a rejection, but a playful gesture.

‘I can hardly judge you,’ he says, answering Hannibal’s unasked question. ‘After what I did to Randall Tier and that man in your family home… I’m not innocent. You saw to that a long time ago.’

There isn’t the bitterness that used to taint Will’s words; now, when he speaks, it is neutral. He’s moved even beyond resignation, to acceptance. Hannibal cannot help but stare at him, mesmerized by this glorious creature, until Will begins to fidget under his gaze.

Blushing at the fierce devotion on Hannibal’s face, a hot ache starting between his legs and fire crackling through his veins, Will slides out from the table and gestures towards the stove.

‘Um… This is probably nearly ready,’ he mumbles, rubbing sweaty palms on his jeans. ‘Wanna set the table?’

‘Sit,’ Hannibal replies, moving from the bench and guiding Will back down. ‘ _Rest_. Let me serve.’

Will shivers, stroking the burning skin on his arms where Hannibal touched him. He nods quickly, watching as Hannibal turns the heat up on the stew and gathers bowls from the cupboard.

They are settled again and eating within minutes, alternating mouthfuls of fresh bread with the tomato and chili stew.

‘This is wonderful, Will.’ Hannibal smiles at him over the lip of his spoon, earning a blush and a self-conscious smile from his companion. ‘I fear I may have lost the kitchen to you.’

‘I might let you create the odd extravagant dish,’ Will teases, swigging back the rest of his beer. ‘For special occasions.’

‘How generous of you.’

‘I’m very kind.’

The flirtatious banter comes easily to them; far more easily than Will had expected. He finds himself shifting closer to Hannibal, seeking the warmth of his body and the grounding reality of his presence whenever anxiety coils in his stomach.

When the meal is finished, and they are almost side by side on the bench, Hannibal risks pushing a curl of Will’s thick hair back behind his ear, exposing the unmarred side of his face so that he can brush the pad of his thumb across the cheekbone.

‘Would you join me for a whiskey on deck?’ he murmurs, sharp eyes noting the other man’s shiver.

‘Yeah,’ Will whispers, mouth suddenly feeling very dry, heart swelling until it’s two sizes too large for his chest. ‘Whiskey sounds good.’

_Spending more time with you sounds good…_

Hannibal hums, and encourages him to follow, offering his arm for support as Will’s face tightens in pain at overworking his back and legs. Despite shaking his head, Will leans against him, taking both tumblers as a means of helping when Hannibal collects a bottle of Scotch.

They make their way, slow as ever, up onto the top deck, and Hannibal releases Will to let him sink onto one of the wooden loungers, easing himself down onto the partnering seat and pouring them each a generous measure of the spirit.

‘To our continued recovery,’ he says, holding his glass up to toast, eyes sparkling and lips curving into a smug smile.

Will grins, and clinks glasses with him, taking a long drink.

‘To Cuba,’ he murmurs, staring into the amber depths. ‘And all that it means for us.’

 _Us_.

Hannibal’s chest squeezes around his heart, but he is careful not to betray his excitement at the words. Will has made few promises; it is currently the lure of a righteous murder that binds them together. He will do nothing to ruin that.

‘In a day or so, we should prepare to leave,’ he says, earning a curious frown from Will. ‘We can sail down the coast and dock for a time in Biloxi, before moving on to meet Mr Ingram.’

‘What are you going to take from him?’ Will asks, tugging up the soft blanket from the base of the lounger and draping it over them both. Hannibal grins, settling under the warmth, one arm free to drink his whiskey, the other curled protectively around his stomach.

‘I thought we might take a few choice cuts,’ he replies, watching Will closely for signs of distress or revulsion, curiously excited when he finds only mild interest and a sharp glint betraying Will’s keen dislike of the man they are planning to murder.

‘Vacuum seal and freeze some,’ Will says, smirking at his own knowledge of Hannibal’s butchering techniques. He grows serious, fingers tapping the rim of the glass, and then stares right into Hannibal’s eyes as he snarls, ‘Take it all, Hannibal. Everything useful. Leave him a shell.’

‘A poignant statement,’ Hannibal murmurs, gut twisting with the thrill of it. ‘Tell me, Will; are you killing him for you, for Peter, or for all those girls he murdered?’

‘All of us,’ Will breathes, eyes alight with cold fire, skin thrumming and blood running so hot he’s surprised he’s not steaming in the cool night air. ‘I want to make a _spectacle_ of his death; it’s the only thing he’s good for.’

‘One of the only things,’ Hannibal counters, giving his lips a long, slow lick. ‘His death will serve as much a purpose as his life failed to.’

‘I want to be the one to kill him,’ Will says, still fervent, speaking fast and hushed as though afraid to break whatever trance he’s in. He can feel the lightning between them again; crackling with power and potential, and he wants to revel in it for just a little longer, before self-doubt kicks back in and renders him awkward and uncomfortable around the man he once called friend.

‘I would never deny you such a gift,’ Hannibal promises, drinking again, proud to see his hand relatively steady. ‘I would never deny you anything.’

‘I’m realizing that,’ Will murmurs, sinking down and bunching the blanket around his head to support it as he turns onto his side to face Hannibal. ‘Your, er, _inconvenient_ compassion for me.’

‘I have little doubt that it will be the thing to get me killed,’ Hannibal says, smiling easily and setting his glass down. He tilts his face to the breeze, closing his eyes and inhaling the smell of salty sea air and distant food cooking.  

A warm hand sliding over his palm and strong fingers linking them together makes him still, and Hannibal regards Will from the corner of his eye. The other man smiles at him, and gives him a light squeeze.

‘I promise,’ Will purrs, blue eyes sparkling and lips curving into a teasing smile, ‘that when the time comes; your compassion for me will kill you quickly.’

***

They talk and sip Scotch for hours beneath a glittering display of stars, the twinkling lights only fading beneath the glow of Miami to the east. Like with dinner, Will is surprised by how _easy_ it is to talk to Hannibal, even after all this time, and he only realizes how late they’ve stayed up when his eyes drift shut mid-sentence.

‘Bed, I think,’ Hannibal announces, when Will sheepishly grins and places his nearly-spilled whiskey down.

‘Hmmm…’ He nods, stifling a yawn into the back of his hand and rolling his shoulders until they pop. Pushes the throw back and bundles it up, chuckling at Hannibal’s evident disgust at his untidiness. But, when he studies the older man, he can tell that Hannibal is equally exhausted, if not more so; despite his attempt to remain alert, Will knows him well enough to see the dull eyes and heavy lids, and the grey tinge to his sharp cheeks. He reaches out before he can catch himself, and pushes back a strand of Hannibal’s ashen hair, squinting at the bright silver in his hair. ‘You look tired, too,’ he murmurs, marveling at the softness of the strands. ‘You okay to help me up?’

‘Of course,’ Hannibal replies, pushing himself up with half-concealed wince. He leans down to help Will to his feet, bracing with his back and thighs to save his abdomen, and wraps an arm around his shoulders as they both sway for a moment, waiting to regain their balance together. ‘What a pair we make,’ he says, grinning at Will when the other man grimaces at him.

‘Couple of old men before our time,’ Will teases, easing himself away and sliding an arm around Hannibal’s waist instead. ‘But I’m sure we’ll be back to normal soon enough.’

‘Light and regular exercise, as well as continued physiotherapy,’ Hannibal agrees, looping his arm in mirror of Will’s embrace, each man leaning a little on the other. ‘We would benefit from swimming, when possible.’

‘You’ve not had enough of the ocean?’ Will asks, thinking back to the night they fell.

The night he pushed them off the cliff.

‘Not at all,’ Hannibal purrs, his hand tightening a fraction on Will’s healing ribs. ‘It’s why we’re together.’

Inside the yacht, the corridor is slightly too narrow to fit comfortably abreast, so Hannibal steps back to allow Will to enter the bedroom first. As he steps through the door, Will’s heart skips a beat and he gulps when he realizes they’ve not discussed sleeping arrangements since jerking each other off earlier.

_I’ve touched Hannibal’s cock, and he’s touched mine…_

The covers are still a mess, the pillows and cushions scattered everywhere, and Will’s certain he can see the evidence of their pleasure, staining the sheet.

He flinches when Hannibal’s hand presses against the small of his back, and tips his head to glance back over his shoulder as the other man leans in, ever sensitive to changes in his moods, his lips brushing the shell of Will’s ear as he murmurs,

‘Would you like me to sleep in another room?’

‘No.’ Will speaks before he can fully comprehend the question – his heart lurches at the very _idea_ of it, and he grabs Hannibal’s hand in both of his own, pulling the other man flush to his back and holding his knuckles to his chest. ‘Stay. I just… Needed a minute.’

‘Of course.’ Hannibal suppresses his excited swoop, and grins against Will’s temple. ‘Thank you, _mylimasis_.’

‘Just… If we could not do anything… I mean…’

‘You want to sleep with me, but only sleep,’ Hannibal confirms, nuzzling Will’s burning cheek. ‘I promise not to take advantage of you in the night.’

‘I know,’ Will mumbles, leaning into the embrace and closing his eyes. He feels silly for even _mentioning_ it; Hannibal has _always_ taken his cues from him… But he needed to be sure. ‘Thank you.’

‘Let’s get ready,’ Hannibal says, encouraging Will into the room. He heads into the bathroom first, using the toilet and then brushing his teeth, watching Will’s reflection in the mirror when the other man comes to join him at the sink. They knock elbows, but neither make a move to put more space between them; Hannibal simply adjusts his weight and lets Will’s hip press against him, slipping his hand down to rest in the middle of Will’s back.

‘I need to change my dressings before we sleep,’ Hannibal says, rinsing his mouth out and returning the toothbrush to the cupboard. ‘And _you_ require a dose of painkillers.’

‘Doctor’s orders?’ Will murmurs, blue eyes sparkling as he swills his own mouthful of water, tonguing the healing cut in his cheek. ‘I’m just glad I don’t have to use that mouthwash anymore.’

‘You’re healing nicely,’ Hannibal says, long fingers reaching out to tilt his head so that he can inspect the remaining stitches. ‘The scar won’t be too noticeable, once it fades.’

‘Maybe I should get a gold tattoo,’ Will says, reaching up to hold Hannibal’s palm flat to his cheek. ‘Imitate that Japanese artform you talked about.’

‘Hm.’ Hannibal smiles, and runs his fingers through Will’s curls before leaving the bathroom to fetch the medical kit from the dresser. He unbuttons his shirt under Will’s curious gaze, revealing the mottled bruises mapping his torso, and deftly unwinds the day-old bandages from his gunshot.

‘ _Hannibal…_ ’ Will’s voice falters when he sees the damage done by the Dragon. The exit wound is to the right of his navel, stitched in a jagged line, still angry red as it heals and ringed with a blushing purple bruise. He moves forward, pulling on a pair of latex gloves so that he can help clean and re-dress it, leaning around Hannibal to check the smaller, neater entry wound on his back.

When he sees the remnants of Mason’s Verger brand, a circle of raised silver flesh with a large V in the middle, partly disfigured now by gashes from the cliffside, his stomach twists with guilt. He reaches out before he can stop himself, tracing the edges of the scar as he thinks back to that night at Muskrat Farm.

The night that Hannibal saved his life.

Hannibal holds very still, barely daring to breathe. He has no feeling on the brand, but the skin around has overcompensated, giving him heightened sensitivity. Will’s touch crackles like lightning across the flesh, making his heart race and his belly squirm.

He can only imagine how intense the sensation would be if Will were to touch with his bare hands.

‘I never thanked you,’ Will mutters, blinking away hot tears as he sinks to the bed beside Hannibal and takes the bottle of iodine and the cotton pads to clean the bullet holes. ‘For saving my life that night… For taking me home and watching over me.’

‘You never have to thank me, Will.’ Hannibal holds still as the other man dabs at his injuries, preparing two squares of gauze and unwrapping another bandage for Will to wrap around his waist. ‘I, however, owe you my freedom.’ He smiles, and checks the knot securing his dressing before undoing his slacks.

‘What are you, er… Planning on wearing?’ Will asks, shimmying out of his jeans and draping them over one of the chairs, leaving him in just boxers and a t-shirt.

‘I’ll keep my underwear on,’ Hannibal promises, smiling at Will as he places his clothing into the laundry hamper. He pulls back the covers on his usual side of the bed and fluffs the pillow. ‘Shall we?’

‘We shall.’ Will gulps back his evening painkillers with a glass of bathroom water and then crawls under the duvet, snapping off the light and lying very still, flat on his back, staring up at the light rippling over the ceiling, his gut churning, palms tingling and heart racing.

It isn’t the first time that Hannibal has slept with him; it’s become a regular thing, since that first time he asked, it’s just… It’s _different_ now.

‘I’ll get provisions tomorrow, and we can leave in the evening,’ Hannibal says, breaking the silence between them to put Will at ease before sleep claims him. ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like, for the journey?’

‘Um…’ Will rolls onto his side, curling an arm under the pillow to support his head as his eyes adjust to the dark and pick out the gleam of Hannibal’s whites, the paleness of his face and the sharpness of his cheekbones. He can see his lips, and he has the absurd urge to lean over and kiss him, again. ‘Cocoa? For the evenings? I know it’s stupid, but –’

‘Not at all,’ Hannibal insists, rolling his head to look him straight in the eye. ‘I’ll make sure we always have it in.’

Will hums. He imagines himself reaching out, taking hold of Hannibal’s warm, smooth hand, or maybe stroking his broad chest… Imagines sliding his fingers through the patch of hair between the other man’s pectorals, and resting his palm over the comforting thud of Hannibal’s heart…

 _We’re still alive, and we’re together. Nobody can take this from us_.

‘Goodnight, Will,’ Hannibal murmurs, closing his eyes to keep himself from grabbing for the other man, tugging him close to hug him in sleep, or perhaps kiss him goodnight. Neither would be appropriate, given Will’s reluctance to share a bed after their earlier intimacy.

‘Goodnight, Hannibal,’ Will whispers, swallowing the lump of disappointment clogging his throat. He rolls back onto his back, resuming his staring of the ceiling, fiddling with his wedding band and pushing it around and around his finger.

Images of Molly, changed forever by her experience with the Red Dragon, flicker behind his eyelids whenever he tries to close his eyes. Memories of touching Hannibal, of the _power_ of his orgasm… Of the _hunger_ on the other man’s face when he’d offered him his throat; when he’d become vulnerable to him again, to appease his need to hurt.

‘Hannibal?’

His voice is so quiet, he’s worried the other man won’t hear. But a low hum of acknowledgement allays his worries, and Will sighs. In one swift motion, he slips his ring from his finger and sets it on the bedside table, reaching back for Hannibal’s arm even as he rolls onto his side, facing away as he pulls the other man to hug him from behind.

To curl around him, and hold him close as they sleep. Possessive and comforting.

‘Is this alright?’ he breathes, hardly daring to listen for the answer, his heart thundering behind compressing ribs.

Hannibal’s lungs, shrunken two sizes too small at Will’s gesture, finally allow him to catch his breath and he releases a long sigh, nuzzling the back of the smaller man’s curls before dipping his head to press a kiss to the nape of his neck. He holds him close, soaking up Will’s warmth, and nods, not trusting his voice just yet. Tightens his grip a fraction, and links his fingers with Will’s, savoring each and every touch given to him.

Will closes his eyes, concentrating on the feel of Hannibal’s weight up against his spine. The warmth is pleasant; he’d always been the one to spoon Molly, enfolding her to make her feel small and safe. But now _he_ is the one being cradled, and sleep beckons as he drifts in a state of utter peace. The warmth seeps into his muscles, aiding the painkiller to soothe his pain and numb his whirring mind.

 _I want this_ , he thinks, bringing Hannibal’s knuckles up to press a kiss to them before sleep claims him. _I want to be with him… Like this. For the rest of my life._

Behind him, Hannibal keeps his eyes resolutely open, no matter the exhaustion tugging at him. He wants to remember every moment of this night, until the moment he dies. Having Will here, in his arms, having willingly removed his ring and chosen him. _Them_.

Compassion is too weak a word for what he feels for Will Graham. As he lies awake, watching the lights of the marina outside play over the pale ceiling, listening to the music of his sleeping companion, Hannibal smiles as he decides exactly how to show him the depth of his emotion.


	5. Minos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Chiyoh prepares for Hannibal and Will's arrival in Cuba, Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom target her as a lead in finding the Murder Husbands, and Margot takes matters into her own hands to ensure the safety of her family.
> 
> Hannibal and Will set out for Galveston, Texas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Oh my goodness, what a slog this has been! I'm so sorry for the delays - I've had some pretty major life stuff happening in the form of an impending job loss coupled with really bad mental and physical health, so it's been nearly impossible to just knuckle down and get anything written. 
> 
> However, fingers crossed things are calming down now, so I thought I'd celebrate 2019 with a nice new chapter, which I hope you enjoy! For those of you who are still here, thank you so much for your patience! You're all amazing, and I truly appreciate you all. xxx

FIVE

_Minos_

 

A white disc plops into the glass of water and bubbles race for the surface. Jack Crawford gives his alka-seltzer a swirl, swallowing it down in two grimacing gulps before chasing the taste away with a swig of strong black coffee.

When he returns his attention to the computer screen, the blue loading bar has filled all the way, and the video call has securely connected.

An IP scrambler and encrypted line ensures complete privacy between him and Alana Bloom-Verger. Jack makes the call in his office at Quantico, where he spends most of his time, now, but he can tell nothing of Alana’s secret location from the room behind her. There are no windows, and plain but tasteful décor. She could be anywhere, which means she is nowhere.

‘Hello, Jack.’

Alana offers her former colleague a tight-lipped smile. Dressed in a sharp white suit and black blouse, her red lipstick projects an air of confidence that she does not feel, and she has twisted her hair into a bun at the back of her head, just as she did when she was the Chief of Staff at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

When she was Hannibal’s jailor.

‘Hello, Alana.’ Jack’s voice is rough, making him sound as tired as he looks. He sips more of his drink and smacks his lips against the heat, rasping a palm over the two-day-old stubble dusting his jaw. ‘You look well.’

It’s been almost three months since the night Dolarhyde was killed. Three months since Hannibal and Will disappeared over the edge of the cliff. Public interest in the escaped cannibal and his Murder Husband has started to wane, but Jack remains under the scrutiny of the Inspector General at Quantico, and they expect results.

He’s likely to be forcibly retired, any day now.

‘How’s the family?’ he asks, when Alana doesn’t respond to the compliment. He needs to focus, and not let his self-pitying thoughts swallow him. The pale woman before him is waiting for an update on what could very well be her _life_. The lives of her wife and son.

_Hannibal Lecter always keeps his promises._

Alana’s blue eyes flicker to the side, to something off-screen that only she can see, before she snaps back to Jack.

‘Morgan’s fine,’ she replies, her tone indicating that she has no intention of sharing anything more on her little boy beyond that. ‘Margot is worried. Understandably.’

‘As we all are,’ Jack agrees. He sighs, curling his hands together to rest his chin on them, propped up with elbows on the desk. ‘It’s not much of an update again, I’m afraid. Somebody thought they spotted Dr Lecter in Bruges two weeks ago, but it turned out to be a false alarm.’

‘Hannibal isn’t in Europe,’ Alana says, coldly dismissing the rumors. ‘He’ll be in Mexico, or South America. And if Will’s alive, he’ll be with him.’

‘There have been no sightings of Will Graham,’ Jack replies, sadness etched into the lines of his face, his dark eyes haunted. ‘No _real_ sightings of either of them. I know I’ve said it before, Alana, but a fall from that height–’

‘Is _likely_ to cause death, but not _certain_ ,’ Alana insists. ‘Hannibal won’t have let Will die, Jack.’ She scoffs, and rolls her eyes. ‘He’s too _stubborn_ for that. When he wants something, he gets it.’ She shrugs delicately, even as she brushes a crease from her pants with a crimson-nailed finger. ‘He’s like a child that way.’

‘A dangerous child,’ Jack huffs.

His gaze drifts past the laptop to the evidence board dominating the far wall. The cork is filled with a map of the world, notes and photographs of Hannibal’s Baltimore townhouse, his office, the apartments he stole in Florence… Above that are two large pictures – booking photographs from Will and Hannibal’s respective arrests. Tacked around the edges are clippings from Tattle Crime. Freddie Lounds has been giving regular updates on the rumors circulating her infamous Murder Husbands, including gruesome details of Lecter’s past crimes and Will’s involvement with Hobbs, with her and with Randall Tier, as well as the more recent murder of the Tooth Fairy.

_Will was right. It is tasteless._

‘Jack?’

Alana’s voice draws him back, and Jack realizes he’s missed something. He rubs his eyes, blinks and focuses back on the screen.

‘Sorry. Say that again?’

‘I said, my sources believe they have located Chiyoh Ishikawa, Hannibal’s… _associate_.’ Alana’s lips twist in distaste at the term, but she doesn’t know what else the elusive Japanese woman could be called. ‘She was seen entering Allegany County, Maryland.’

Jack frowns.

‘That’s –’

‘Where Molly and Walter live.’ Alana nods, her blue eyes flashing. ‘Where Will lived.’

‘You think this is proof that they survived?’ Jack asks, scrawling down the details on his pad. ‘Do you think she’s looking for them, or hiding them there?’

Alana leans closer to the screen, her jaw set in grim determination.

‘I think it’s reason enough to bring her in for questioning. And Jack?’ She waits until the Special Agent looks at her through the screen, and then bares her teeth in a warning smile. ‘If you don’t, I will.’

***

Molly Graham has always been a light sleeper. The barest noise can rouse her from slumber; birdsong, the snores of a dog, water sloshing in a pipe, or the desperate mutterings of a husband trapped in nightmares.

It was what saved her and Walter the night the Great Red Dragon broke into their home. She’d heard the weight of boots on the stairs, and known, immediately, that death had come into their house.

Now, as a floorboard in the bedroom doorway creaks, Molly’s heart batters against her ribcage, and panic chokes the voice from her throat. She jerks upright, wrenching her freshly healed shoulder, and feels her nightshirt stick to the sweat on her back.

‘Wally?’

Her son blushes, shifting guiltily from foot to foot as he realizes how much he’s scared his mother by hesitating behind the door.

‘Sorry, Mom…’ He steps into the room, plucking at the hem of his pajama top. ‘I just… Um… I let the dogs out for a pee and… and…’

‘What?’ Molly is already scrambling out of bed, kicking back the duvet before slipping her feet into slipper boots and wrapping a gown around her as she follows Wally from the room. ‘What happened?’

_I can’t afford another vet’s bill…_

Wally sniffs, and tears shimmer in his eyes.

‘They’re _gone_ ,’ he croaks, his lower lip trembling. ‘I got their breakfast ready, I went to go get them and they just… they weren’t _there_.’

_The dogs are gone?_

Panic battles hope, and Molly sprints the last few steps to the outside. She bursts through the front door, her breath billowing in the bitter air, wild eyes swinging around the front yard and packed snow of the driveway, the skeletal trees hugging the property boundary, and the bleak, cloud-strewn sky above.

‘WILL!’ She clatters down the steps, slipping and sliding her way towards the boatshed, wondering if her husband is hiding in there, perhaps wounded and seeking refuge with his pets. ‘WILL!’

‘Mom?’ Behind her, Wally sounds nervous, like he’s worried she’s lost her mind. But Molly knows those dogs; they would _never_ just run off by themselves. If they’re gone, it’s because they’re with Will.

‘Fetch my phone, honey,’ she calls, boots stamping a circle as she searches for any sign of him, still edging towards the shed. ‘I want you to call Jack Crawford. You tell him Will’s alive.’

‘Is he?’ Wally asks, his face scrunched up into a bewildered frown, his teeth chattering from the cold. ‘If he’s here, why hasn’t he just come in?’

‘He might be hurt,’ Molly says, half-falling and pushing herself across a patch of ice forming in the rut of a tire-track, pushing blonde hair from her face with a snowy hand. ‘When did you let the dogs out?’

‘‘Bout ten minutes ago,’ Wally replies, edging for the door. ‘Mom…? What if they’ve just run off?’

‘They haven’t,’ Molly says, too quiet for Walter to hear. She reaches the boatshed, her chest shrinking by two sizes when she sees that the doors are still firmly secured by the chain and padlock, undisturbed and covered in a frosting of snow. He’s not in there… ‘They haven’t run off… They wouldn’t…’

Hot tears burn her eyes, making her throat ache as she tries not to think about how restless and agitated the dogs have seemed recently… How naughty they’ve been…

How Winston has had to be fitted with an electric shock collar to keep him from escaping the boundary of the yard…

Raking her claws down her cheeks, Molly lashes out, and kicks the pile of snow beside her, sending clumps flying as she whirls on the driveway with an incoherent yell of rage.

‘FUCK YOU, WILL GRAHAM! FUCK YOU!’

_Fuck you for leaving me all alone in this world._

Sat on the passenger seat of Chiyoh’s rented van, Winston lowers his ears and whines as the faint sound of Molly’s shouting reaches them. Loading the rest of the dogs into crates, Chiyoh pauses and looks around with a sigh, her leather-clad hands straying for the sniper rifle hung over her shoulder.

She’d hoped to be finished and driving before Molly Graham discovered the missing animals.

_Don’t follow me… Walter needs his mother._

At least enticing the dogs from the yard had been easy; fresh meat and a shirt laced with Will’s scent had brought them to her, and she had replaced their collars with slip-on leashes, dangling the shirt before Winston’s face so that he led the way after her, right to the van hidden down a side road.

‘Hurry,’ Chiyoh whispers, lifting the last dog, a small terrier with a scar along its side, into one of the smaller cages and securing him in. She snaps her fingers at Winston, calling him over, and points to the last crate for him. The collie-cross pauses, his head cocked, and then bounds up, turning circles before settling himself on a blanket, a towel and another of Will’s shirts from the yacht.

 _Hannibal was right_ , Chiyoh thinks, counting the nine dogs off. _They’ll follow that scent anywhere._

She slides the door shut, looking around one last time to make sure she’s not being followed, and then climbs back up behind the wheel.

It’s time to leave this place. She has what she came for.

***

The wall clock hanging in the yacht’s kitchen is painfully loud. Silence presses in around every _tock_ , heavy with dread, but Will can’t bring himself to play music on the radio.

Hannibal has been gone too long. He left three hours ago, to fetch supplies for their journey down the coast. The last thing on his list was Will’s stupid fucking _cocoa_.

Now, as dusk falls and the lights of the marina flicker on around him, Will sinks ever deeper into the gathering darkness and drowns in his own anxiety.

He should have been back by now.

_What if someone recognized him? What if he’s been arrested? What if he’s been shot?_

The pleasure he feels at the idea of enacting bloody revenge on the unlucky soul stupid enough to kill Hannibal Lecter is what scares him the most. Cradling his third whiskey between sweating palms, Will closes his eyes to see visions of gutting, dismemberment and burning flesh, his gut twisting with hunger at the idea of the damage he could do. The fear he could inspire.

He doesn’t enjoy cruelty for cruelty’s sake, but when there’s a purpose to it…

He tries to calm himself with another sip of his drink, but the taste only serves to remind him of the missing man, and he shoves the tumbler away from him with enough force that the amber spirit sloshes up and over the edges of the glass.

He has to find him.

The creak of weight on the deck above him has him flying to his feet, one hand clapped to his ribs, the other’s knuckles stuffed into his mouth to stifle his gasp of pain. Edging out from the bench around the kitchen table, Will makes his way to the narrow staircase leading up to the top deck, half expecting armed officers to greet him. When there’s nothing, adrenaline spikes through his veins and his lips tingle. He reaches back and gathers up a knife from the counter, holding it close, ready to slash and stab, as he ascends the stairs.

‘Hannibal?’

The cool twilight of the marina is a welcome change from the stuffy cabin interior, and Will breathes a silent sigh of relief when all appears normal. He keeps his back to the wall, though, turning a slow half-circle as he seeks out the source of the sound he’d heard.

A hand whips out of the gloom, knocking the blade from his fingers to clatter, useless, to the ground. Will turns, baring his teeth in a snarl, and finds himself face to face with Hannibal himself. The older man is smiling faintly, but in his eyes is the cold, hard gleam of a predator.

‘Fuck!’ Will wrenches out of the grip and gives Hannibal a none-too-gentle punch on the arm. ‘You scared me!’

‘Going somewhere?’ Hannibal asks, raising an eyebrow to the knife just beyond Will’s reach. As he looks down, Will suddenly realizes how this must look to the other man.

‘I was worried about you,’ he explains, meeting Hannibal’s eyes in time to see them widen a fraction in surprise, the ice melting to reveal a tender, puzzled expression. ‘When I heard noise, I just…’ He releases his breath and shrugs. ‘It was self-defense.’

‘Yourself or mine?’ Hannibal teases, though he shifts closer and dips his head to scent Will’s curls, tasting the distinctive tang of his fear, noting the way it has already lessened and is mellowing in his company.

Will is not lying to him.

‘Was there a delay?’ Will asks, wincing as he bends to retrieve the knife, automatically taking a bag from Hannibal to help him with the shopping. ‘You said two hours, tops. It’s been over three.’

‘I bought you something,’ Hannibal replies, nudging him forwards when Will stops to look back in surprise. ‘A gift.’

‘Why?’

Hannibal inclines his head, withholding his answer until they enter the kitchen. Will dumps the string grocery bag on the table, gulping back the last of his whiskey and studiously ignoring the reproachful look he is given. He places both tumbler and knife into the sink and begins to unpack the items.

‘Sauces, herbs, spices…’ He holds up a small jar of saffron, already salivating at the idea of what Hannibal might cook for them next. ‘Wow, you really went to town.’

‘Those are mere pantry staples,’ Hannibal says, earning himself a snort from Will. He smiles, and pulls his final item from one of the bags. ‘ _This_ is for you.’

Will sets a net of onions down and stares. In Hannibal’s hands is a beautiful, brand new fishing rod, complete with line and a set of bait hooks. He takes the equipment carefully, running his hands up and down to test its strength and suppleness, pressing the tip of a hook and watching, captivated, as a bead of holly red blood wells on his pad of his thumb.

‘Why?’ he repeats, looking up at Hannibal. The other man draws closer and brings Will’s injured hand up to his mouth, mirroring the same thing he had done to himself when visiting Will’s house, so many years ago. He slides Will’s thumb between his lips and tastes the offering, rasping the flat of his tongue over the nick before reluctantly releasing him.

‘You miss fishing,’ he murmurs, smiling at the dazed, heavy-lidded expression on Will’s face. ‘I see it in your eyes when you look out across the water. I want to change that.’

‘Thank you.’ Will leans further in, the pole pressed between their bodies, and rests his forehead against Hannibal’s shoulder. He inhales, slowly and deeply, filling his lungs with the smell of his companion. He wants to just enjoy this moment, but he can’t ignore the way Hannibal looked at him when he was on deck.

‘You thought I was trying to escape,’ he whispers, his gut tightening when Hannibal tenses beneath him.

‘I… wondered if you’d changed your mind,’ the other man admits, cupping the back of Will’s head with one hand and sliding the other around his waist, settling it in the small of his back.

Will sighs, shuffling even closer as he hugs Hannibal back, savoring the comfort of the embrace.

‘There is no escape,’ he mumbles, turning his face away to press his uninjured cheek against Hannibal’s collarbone, staring out of the little window above the kitchen table to the twinkling lights and dark waters beyond.

_Maybe there’s nothing to escape from…_

Silence settles between them, not quite comfortable, but not as thick with tension as Will had expected. He makes himself relax against Hannibal’s chest, finally starting to feel the effects of three double whiskeys.

After a few minutes, Hannibal takes a deep breath and moves away, returning to the groceries. Will busies himself setting the fishing rod and equipment away in the tall cupboard by the door, and when he turns back, there is a tin of cocoa powder on the kitchen table. He grins, looking up at Hannibal, who tips his head with a smile.

‘As requested,’ Hannibal says, something gently teasing in the quirk of his lips and the sparkle in his eye. ‘Would you like a cup now?’

‘Last thing before bed,’ Will replies, brushing his fingertips over the lid. ‘With a _large_ shot of whiskey.’

‘Will…’ Hannibal cuts himself off before his tone can become more scolding, and forces himself to swallow and nod, adding briskly, ‘Be sure to measure the dose and adjust when you take your painkillers.’

Keeping his eyes fixed on the tin of cocoa, Will feels his earlier tension creep back, finding a new outlet after so much silence.

‘You think I drink too much,’ he mutters, restless fingers stroking the lid.

‘I think you are prone to avoiding your thoughts and emotions,’ Hannibal replies. He washes his hands, and then pulls out a board and a clean knife with which to chop onions and garlic. ‘Rarely in the healthiest of ways.’

‘So, I’m, what? Drowning my guilt and regret in alcohol?’ Will’s mouth twists downwards. He knows he should stop, should drink some water and wait to calm down, but he can’t. He won’t. ‘ _That_ would imply a part of me doesn’t want to be here.’

‘Part of you doesn’t.’

Hannibal speaks the damning words so calmly, so dispassionately, that Will stills, his heart compressing in his chest and lungs so tight to hurts to breathe. Looking sideways, feeling the old, familiar prickle of fear raise the fine hairs across the back of his neck, he sees Hannibal facing him, the knife gleaming between his hands.

Despite his training, despite his experience, he takes a step back.

‘Hannibal…’

‘I know you’re not lying to me, Will.’ Hannibal moves forwards, closing the distance between them. He makes no effort to soothe his unease; he knows the younger man will listen more carefully if he is nervous. ‘You’re not manipulating me, the way you did before. But that isn’t the same as being wholly committed to what’s best for you.’

‘Murder and cannibalism is _best_ for me?’ Will’s tone is sharp, and he clenches a shaking hand into a fist, feeling his newly healed arm twinge at the strain. Feels his legs jump even as he plants himself in position, refusing to give up any more ground.

‘Accepting yourself,’ Hannibal corrects, to which Will scoffs and turns away. He watches as Will jerks his hands through his hair, tugging at the curls to ground himself in the pain, and stops a few feet from him as he continues, ‘You made the decision to stay with me. By removing your ring, you symbolically committed yourself to this partnership. But part of you still longs for your past life.’

He sighs, setting the blade down on the table when his hands start to tremble. There’s a lump in his throat, but he pushes past it to add, somewhat hoarsely,

‘It’s one of your finest qualities.’

‘What?’ Will spits, resolutely frozen, refusing to let himself move for fear of what he might do. ‘My _indecision?’_

‘Your compassion.’ Hannibal catches his eye when Will glances up from beneath dark lashes. ‘You care about so many people. You worry for them, even now.’

‘Of course I do.’ Will releases his breath, forcing it out slowly, and taps his thigh. ‘I’m not… _good_ for them.’

_I’m not good enough for them._

‘And they are not good for you,’ Hannibal says, ignoring the furious scowl he gets in return. ‘You can be honest with me, Will. Always.’

Will grits his back teeth until his jaw aches. He’s not just tense, anymore. His emotions are roiling, and anger is the easiest way to express them.

‘Okay, well, _honestly_ , I can’t stand to be with you right now.’ He shoves past Hannibal to get at the bottle of Scotch in the cupboard, intent on escaping up to the top deck to drink in solitude. The other man moves aside, but he reacts fast and keeps the cabinet door shut with his hand flat to it, denying Will his drink. His reprieve.

Will rounds on him.

‘Get out of my way!’

‘You’ve had enough,’ Hannibal replies, maddeningly calm. Will stares for a moment, black rage pouring through his veins like poison. His eyes drop to the knife, abandoned on the table, and he lunges for it before he’s even formed a plan.

Hannibal moves with him, wrapping his arms around Will’s chest and wrenching him around. He slams him into the counter, pressing up against his back as he pins him, squeezing Will’s wrists until the small bones grind and the smaller man squirms in pain.

‘Stop,’ Hannibal says. He braces himself for the inevitable struggling – Will has never been one to surrender – and takes an elbow back to the ribs before securing Will’s arms more tightly across his own chest.

‘Get _off_ me!’ Will hisses, squeezing his eyes tight shut against the hurricane of emotions battering his insides. He bows his head, breathing hard, and tries not to feel the strength in Hannibal’s body. Tries not to react to it.

‘It’s alright,’ Hannibal murmurs, adjusting the grip so that it’s more of an embrace than a restraint. ‘I’m here.’

Will trembles, horrified by the lump forming in his throat. He shakes his head, willing his eyes not to burn, and holds his breath until his ears ring.

‘Will…’

Hannibal loosens his grip, easing him around until they are face to face. Will keeps his head down, staring through a watery haze at Hannibal’s tan loafers – of _course_ he’s dressed in chic white linen and light colors for the climate – and wondering exactly _why_ he was so furious.

Hannibal sighs.

‘I’m… sorry.’

The halting apology, so foreign on his lips, surprises Will enough that he forgets himself and looks up. As he does, a traitorous tear slips down his cheek, tickling his skin. Relief and fear interweave to form a band around his chest, and he is reminded, painfully, of their night on the clifftop. Hannibal had given so much to him, and it had been too much to fight. His surrender had been the sweetest thing he’d ever felt.

_I love you._

‘Don’t leave me again,’ he growls, tangling his hands into the front of Hannibal’s shirt and dragging him closer.

Hannibal’s brow furrows at the sight of Will’s tears, and he finds himself regretting taking his time at the market. He hadn’t realized Will would worry so much. He can imagine him, sitting alone, nursing a whiskey in a futile attempt to ease his concern, no doubt horrified by the joy with which he had envisioned his grisly revenge, should anything have happened to his beloved.

His heart skips a beat and his own throat cramps at how far they’ve come.

‘I promise,’ he whispers, and dips his head, meeting Will for a bruising kiss.

His anger vanishes as soon as it appeared, and Will hugs Hannibal tight as he maps every part of his mouth with his own. He concentrates on memorizing the softness of his partner’s lips, still dry from the salty air, and the lingering taste of a coffee he must have stopped to drink whilst out… The unique tang of Hannibal himself, intoxicating in its own way, and dangerously addictive…

He groans, and shoves Hannibal back against the table, pinning him with his hips. Grabs handfuls of Hannibal’s silky hair and claws at his shoulders, furious at how much distance is still between them. He sucks Hannibal’s tongue down, catching it between his teeth and biting, slightly harder than necessary, as punishment for scaring him.

Hannibal surrenders to the assault, pliant in Will’s arms. He holds him close, but makes it very clear that the other man is in charge. Will can do with him whatever he wishes, as penance for his mistake.

Will breaks the kiss with a pained sound, and holds Hannibal’s face between his palms. He stares into the other man’s eyes, drowning in black pupils and tracing every vein and perfect imperfection on the sclera.

Hannibal’s eyes have never been distracting; they are hypnotic.

‘Can we stay one more night?’ he asks, dropping one hand to Hannibal’s shoulder, leaving the other stroking the stubble on his jaw. ‘Leave with first light?’

‘Of course.’ Hannibal tilts into the touch, savoring the contact, and Will feels a pang of hunger, an aching loneliness, and realizes it’s from his partner, from the years spent in isolated captivity. He drops his hand to twine his fingers with Hannibal’s, and gives them a squeeze.

‘Want me to help cook?’ he asks, nodding towards the forgotten chopping board and vegetables. He grins, his eyes sparkling, and knocks his hip against Hannibal’s. ‘I can chop ginger for you, if you want?’

The suggestive offer, made with the same flirtatious suggestion as last time, makes Hannibal smile, and Will leans in to feel the warmth of a blush on his cheeks.

‘That’s new,’ he murmurs, brushing his lips oh-so gently across Hannibal’s cheekbone. ‘I like it.’

‘I wasn’t sure you knew what I was referring to, when I said it before,’ Hannibal replies, chasing the lips with his own but stopping just shy of kissing Will.

Will avoids his mouth, enjoying the game, and moves to a fresh scar on Hannibal’s jaw, following it up and across smooth flesh to the old ridge on his right cheek from Jack’s attack in Florence.

‘I’m not _that_ naïve,’ he whispers, sliding his arms around Hannibal’s waist and slotting their legs together, his knee between Hannibal’s thighs, their chests flush and shirt buttons catching against each other. ‘I’ve just never done it.’

‘Would you like to?’ Hannibal asks, and Will hums a low chuckle against his pulse, scraping with his teeth to elicit a long shudder and low moan from the other man.

He steps back, his eyes heavy-lidded and pink lips parted, pleased with his efforts.

‘I’d _like_ to help you make dinner,’ he says, reaching around Hannibal for the knife. He knows he’s being watched, and he very deliberately turns the weapon so that the blade is pointed at his body, offering the handle to his killer. ‘Tell me what to do.’

Hannibal’s breath catches, at both the offer, and the trust it demonstrates, and the layers behind Will’s words. He swallows, and manages to nod once before moving away, his palms tingling.

‘I was thinking of making steamed grouper with a martini relish and sour orange sauce, served with fresh vegetables.’

‘Sounds delicious,’ Will replies, moving to the sink to wash his hands. He smirks at the effect he’s having, and then says, deliberately innocently, ‘Grouper’s really good this time of year.’

‘It came highly recommended,’ Hannibal agrees, pushing down his arousal and forcing himself to concentrate on the meal. He copies Will, rinsing and drying his hands before returning to the onions and garlic. ‘You can chop the dill and grate the lime for me,’ he adds, pointing with the knife to the herb and green fruit waiting on the side.

‘Sure.’ Will presses up against his back, leaning around him for another knife and dropping a quick kiss to the back of Hannibal’s neck before pulling away. ‘You’re the boss.’

Hannibal’s heart skips a beat, and his stomach flutters with something akin to nerves, though the sensation is not unpleasant. He looks over at his companion, unable to resist smiling when he sees the curve of Will’s lips, and the mischief twinkling in his eyes. Will is definitely flirting with him.

He chuckles, and shakes his head.

‘With you, mylimasis, I find that _very_ hard to believe.’

***

They leave the marina the next morning.

Will wakes with a start, curled on his side with an arm under his pillow, the other before his face. The first thing he sees, when he opens his eyes, is the tan line from his missing ring, and his gut tightens at the memory of removing it. He stretches his leg back, searching for the familiar comfort of Hannibal’s body behind his, rolling over and sitting up when he realizes he’s alone in their bed.

‘Hannibal?’

It takes him a second, but then he realizes what’s different. The engines are rumbling, and water splashes against the hull outside. Will’s heart leaps, and he scrambles from the covers as fast as he can, hurrying up to the top deck in the t-shirt and thin boxers he’d changed into last night, barking a laugh when he sees the open ocean around them, and the early morning sun beating down on topaz waves.

‘Good morning, Will.’

Hannibal’s voice comes from behind him, and Will turns to see his companion at the wheel, dressed in another impeccable white linen shirt and tan shorts outfit, sunglasses shielding his eyes as he drives them away from Florida.

‘The wind’s with us,’ Will calls, holding onto the railing as he comes closer, absently closing his eyes and tilting his face into the salty breeze tugging at his curls. ‘We should use the sail. Save fuel.’

‘I’ll leave that to you,’ Hannibal replies, chuckling at the eyeroll Will gives him. He beckons him closer and allows him to inspect the controls, stepping back to openly admire the curve of Will’s backside in his underwear. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Mm.’ Will nods, already absorbed with adjusting their speed. He moves to the mast, closely followed by Hannibal, and shields his eyes from the sun as he considers his options. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘You looked peaceful,’ Hannibal replies, smiling as Will sets about releasing the safety catch and unfurling the sails. ‘And you still need your rest.’

‘So do you,’ Will replies, speaking absently as he gives the ropes a tug. Pain flares and he winces, a hand going to his shoulder. That was stupid.

Hannibal steps closer, a silent offer of help, and Will nods his thanks. Between them, they manage to get the ropes down, untangle and then re-secure them. Hannibal follows Will’s lead without hesitation, watching carefully before replicating the sailor’s knots.

When it’s done, Will returns to the wheel and turns the engine off, leaving them to the breeze.

‘You set out about two hours ago?’ he asks, removing a notebook from on top of the map and unfurling it across the dashboard, absorbed in navigating. ‘Were you thinking of docking in Key Largo?’

‘Only if you want to visit,’ Hannibal murmurs, coming to stand behind him and placing a hand very gently on his waist, enthralled by the sight of Will so confident and in control. ‘Or we could moor in a more secluded spot? Spend the night alone?’

Will’s breath catches, his skin crackling at the feel of Hannibal’s broad palm and strong fingers on him. He tries to swallow, tries to lick his lips, but his mouth has gone very dry and, when he looks down, he notices that his fingers are trembling.

‘That, er… that would be safer,’ he croaks, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the map. ‘I, er… I can chart a course for us…’

‘Perfect,’ Hannibal says, leaning ever closer, looming over Will’s shoulder to scent his hair. ‘Would you like breakfast?’

‘Hannibal…’ Will thumbs at the pale strip of skin where his wedding band used to be, his heart racing. He presses a hand to his stomach, feeling hollow. The ridged scar of his smile seems to leap up towards his fingertips, burning hot and tingling, and Will’s heart thunders in his throat, choking him. With a strangled gasp, he shoves himself away, pulling in a desperate breath as he puts space between them.

‘I’ll make you a coffee,’ Hannibal says, openly smirking at how much he’s able to rattle Will today. He pushes his sunglasses up onto his head and turns to head downstairs, pausing in surprise when Will suddenly grabs his hand.

‘You’re such a _bastard_ ,’ Will growls, tugging him closer and pressing a fierce kiss to his lips. He keeps his eyes open, savoring the shocked expression on Hannibal’s face, and then pushes the other man away when Hannibal tries to deepen the kiss. ‘You make me breakfast, and I’ll teach you how to sail.’

‘I’ll teach you Cuban, and you teach me how to fish,’ Hannibal counters, grinning at the pleasant, tingling sensation in his swollen lips. He waits for Will to nod, and then disappears downstairs, humming beneath his breath.

What a perfect way to start the trip.

***

The secure line clicks as it connects, and Margot Verger watches as images of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham fill the screen, each of them at least six months out of date by now. A photograph of Chiyoh Ishikawa is the last to appear, before it fades to reveal the live link to a videocall with Isaak Romanov, one of the most expensive and successful mercenaries in the western world.

‘Good morning, Ms. Verger.’

Isaak’s clipped, British accent barely hints at his Russian heritage, and Margot wonders if Isaak has returned to his house in London.

‘Good morning, Isaak. I trust you’re well?’

‘As ever, Ms. Verger,’ Isaak replies, inclining his head in a gracious nod. ‘I have an update for you.’

Margot hears the rustle of silk on skin, and glances over the top of the laptop to see Alana roll onto her side in bed. The other woman is safely hidden from view, but anxiety still makes a nest in Margot’s belly, and her palms are no longer dry.

‘Go ahead,’ she says softly, adjusting the volume on the speakers in case Isaak’s voice is disturbing Alana’s sleep. Since Hannibal’s escape, she’s barely been able to manage a whole night without nightmares; she needs to rest whenever she can.  

‘The assistant, Miss Ishikawa, was seen leaving Maine two days ago,’ Isaak says, and a long-range photograph of the young Japanese woman appears to the side of his face on the screen, clearly projected from the computer his end. ‘She rented a van, paid for in cash, and has booked a one-way flight to Vancouver airport, Canada, for two days from now.’

‘Has Jack Crawford spoken to her?’ Margot asks, frowning at the image of Hannibal’s childhood friend. ‘He said he was going to bring her in for questioning.’

‘According to my sources, Agent Crawford met with Miss Ishikawa at her hotel room, the day before yesterday, but he had no reason to bring her in for questioning and she denied any recent involvement with Hannibal Lecter or Will Graham.’ Isaak frowns, clearly dubious. ‘She said she was in Maine searching for Will Graham, in the hopes that, if he had survived the fall, he may have returned home, and that he might lead her to Hannibal, but that she heard nothing, and so left.’

‘And Jack believed her?’ Margot scrunches up her nose, sharing the skepticism. ‘He just let her go.’

Isaak straightens the cuffs of his designer suit jacket, brushing a stray crease from the sleeve.

‘Agent Crawford is bound by the restrictions of his legal system,’ he replies, coolly dismissive of such trivialities. ‘I have sent a team to intercept her at the airport.’

‘Thank you, Isaak.’

Margot sits back, the update doing nothing for the anxiety churning in her belly. She listens to the remainder of the intel – Isaak’s men have scoped out Hannibal’s old cliffside house, as well as his office and Baltimore townhouse, but discovered nothing of value – and starts when Isaak waves at the camera, realizing she’d lost track of the conversation.

‘Sorry; what was that last part?’ she asks, making a mental note to transfer another few thousand dollars to Isaak’s account for her rudeness. ‘Something about a surgeon?’

‘Yes,’ Isaak says, his irritation replaced by cool professionalism. ‘Dr. VanOusen, a private surgeon in Miami, specializing in reconstructive and cosmetic surgery. According to local news, he’s been missing for months.’

‘Since Hannibal and Will’s disappearance?’ Margot’s heart skips a beat, and she leans forwards to read the article that Isaak has just e-mailed to her. ‘He could have helped them…’

‘I’ve got a few of my people looking into it,’ Isaak replies, ticking agenda items off his list. ‘I’ll keep you informed.’

‘Thank you.’ Margot sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s just as exhausted as Alana, and the sight of her pillows, just visible beyond the computer screen, is its own kind of torture. ‘If you invoice for any expenses, I’ll have Judy arrange the funds.’

‘Judy, yes. Cordell’s replacement. Charming woman.’ Isaak smiles, his eyes like chips of blue ice. ‘I’ll have my secretary send the paperwork. If that’s all, Ms. Verger…?’

‘That’s all.’ Margot smiles, grateful for Isaak taking the hint and ending the conversation. The mob boss nods, and the screen clears of any e-mails and photographs.

‘Next report in ten days.’

The call ends with a beep and the computer screen turns black as the connection is lost.

Margot releases a long, slow breath, rubs at her itching eyes, and drags her aching body back to the warmth of her wife’s embrace in their bed.

Ten days.

If anyone can find and kill Hannibal Lecter, it’s Isaak Romanov. There’s nothing to worry about.

It’s all going to be fine.


End file.
